On the coldest winter days, my intrepid mother would pull me on a wooden sleigh with curved metal runners, bundled up immobile and beyond recognition on the cross-country trek to my kindergarten class with Miss Linkletter at Prince Phillip Public School. It was there that I learned to count and to sound out the alphabet years before Sesame Street aired on television. My earliest memories of this class included my inability to use a coat hanger to hang up my coat, which ultimately led to a total reliance on coat hooks and a fear of trying. I had a slow start.
I do clearly remember nap time when we would, as a group, lay our little blankets down in a large circle on the cold, hard linoleum floor and pretend to sleep while Miss Linkletter busied herself preparing for our next activity. I can confidently say that Miss Linkletter was my first love, a secret until now.
I loved show-and-tell. My dad made me a wooden violin, or maybe it was a small guitar. He had cut the shape on his jig saw out of quarter-inch plywood, then stained it and painted on strings and a dark circle for the hole. I didn’t know the technical terms then and still don’t, but I was too embarrassed to show it when show-and-tell came around. Instead, I hid it in the coatroom.
In later grades (after failing grade one), I especially liked art and music classes. However, I soon realized that my joy in such activities was not due to any natural talent. I made peace with the knowledge that my love for those classes withered because my grades never matched my passion, and there was no grade for passion.
The first time I got the strap was for throwing snowballs in the “No Snowball” zone, which was the area between the soccer posts. To this day, I believe Mr. Lowen was waiting for me to cross the boundary from no man’s land with an active snowball in my hand so he could send me and my brother and two hangers-on directly to Mr. Hall’s office for the strap.
The four of us stood in absolute fear before our diminutive but powerful principal as he gripped, one by one, our wrists in one hand and the coarse leather strap in the other, then wound up like a hard ball pitcher and let loose a forceful downward strike that displaced the air in the room as the belt made contact with our hands. When it was my turn, I did not yell. I faced forward and received four on each hand, as I did the following week for the same offence. The only thing that ultimately saved me was the coming of spring and the melting of the snow.
In the spring came marble season and a time of competition outside, with little chance of the strap unless a fight broke out over excessive losses or cheating. We served up our games like a small casino at a fairground. The few fights I got into during this time were relatively inconsequential.
The frost had left the ground
the school yard transformed
to a cratered, lunar-like surface
as happy kids with numb fingers
squinted and took aim in
winner takes all games of:
Eye Drops,
Potsies,
Hitsies,
Snap-Crackle-Pop,
or
Blanksies.
A vocabulary for size:
Croak, supersize,
jumbo, bolder,
peewee and mini.
And one for appearance:
Fogs, Specks, Cat’s Eyes, Sharks, Oilies,
Horsetails, Steelies, Ghost Galaxies,
Red Devils, Onions, Bloody Marys, Rainbows,
Skunks, Jewel Crowns, Crystals, Frosties, Spies,
Blueberry, Black Knights, Chestnuts, Galpears and
…never ever forget the lonely,
Plainie.
Few things on the yard match the excitement of
a mass marble scramble, or the eagerness in the eyes
of a potsie winner proudly clutching
a Royal Crown bag full of marbles.
Some days I would give a jumbo rainbow-swirl
to be ten again.
Later in math class, my teacher mocked me for my weak numeracy skills while I was working on a slide rule. He asked what I wanted to do in the future, and I told him I was interested in science. I remember his derisive laugh with mocking tones as he told me my math skills would have to be a little tighter, and he added a chuckle. Whatever joy I had felt out in the yard playing marbles was destroyed with one cruel comment.
I eventually concluded that the teachers were right and that I was far too sensitive for my own good, and for a while, I just stopped taking school seriously. That is until I met Mr. Keagler in grade ten geography. He gave me back my
passion for geography, trivia, nature, travel, humour, and life. His classes were like the joy of playing marbles out in the schoolyard and learning new things all at the same time.
I took every class with Mr. K that I could. I believe that because one teacher helped me re-discover myself and my passions and overcome my sensitivities, I was able to succeed as a student eventually. I never excelled at art, music, or math, but I did connect with Mr. K’s son who I envied, and through him I was able to send greetings to his retired father in Fort Myers, wishing him well and thanking him for being my teacher. I don’t know if he ever got the message, or if he did, if he remembered me out of a long career of students, but I do know I will never forget Mr. Keagler for making me the geography teacher I became.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Marty Rempel
Marty Rempel has been an educator in many capacities and places, serving as a teacher in Kuwait and the Bahamas, Special Education Co-ordinator in Northern Alberta with Cree and Dene students, a principal in Jinhua, China, and currently a principal in Markham, ON, at a school catering to students from mainland China.
This article is featured in Canadian Teacher Magazine’s Fall 2024 issue.
