Two young boys, brothers I think, make their lingering journey to school each morning passing under my view and scrutiny as I perch on my eighth-floor balcony. They are not determined travellers as much as curious explorers. They observe, and they are tactile, touching what they can, whatever they encounter as they walk. They pass an old retaining wall. They poke and prod their little fingers into small cracks and crevices and remove small pieces of mortar that they subsequently toss to the sidewalk and half-heartedly kick along as if in a pretend game of soccer.
I watch all of this with amusement as I drink my coffee. I wonder if they will ever reach their destination just a little way up the hill—they move so slowly and peacefully, seemingly content in each other’s company. How will their day unfold? I wonder since their destination was my own some sixty years ago when I attended the same school.
I walked the identical route on that very same sidewalk and likely poked some of those same crevices in the fieldstone retaining wall that, remarkably, still stands straight and true after so many decades. My route was not all residential as it is today. Most of that sprawling urbanization below my balcony was once farmland and forest. As I left the farmhouse that my family rented from a retired farmer who lived further up the road, my journey first took me past barns and utility sheds and then a pasture of grazing Holstein cattle. Today, a Canadian Tire store stands in that spot, the barn, sheds, and house all torn down. I place the approximate location of my bedroom where the paint department is now located.
My walk passed the pastures and took me into thick forested areas where, some days after school, my friend and I would carelessly hunt for squirrels, not giving any rational thought as to where our 22 calibre bullets would land after we aimed straight up a tall maple tree to take our shot. It was clearly a time of freedom with no consequences.
At one point during my journey, I had to cross a stream where today the city has constructed a bridge to an extensive trail system. Going one way after the crossing, I would reach my friend’s house, while going the other, I would link to a trail connecting me to my school. It was a serene and solitary walk on forest trails, which left me to my adolescent thoughts and my vivid imagination, a trip superior to any on noisy, crowded school buses.
Upon leaving the woods and entering civilization—my condo had not been built yet, in fact, I don’t think condos were even a thing at that time—my trail converged with the sidewalk where the two young boys walk today. Our routes then became linked and followed my young footsteps the rest of the way to the break in the fence allowing a shortcut through the schoolyard. Likely the similarity ends there, as I imagine my typical school day in 1964 was radically different from what these two boys experience in 2025.
My memory fast forwards to junior high school. I wasn’t a particularly apt student in grade eight, but I have to say it was a transformative year for me. My homeroom teacher, Mr. Stockie, had a formidable presence in the classroom and in my life. He always dressed in a dark suit and tie. He was a man in black. He looked the part of an undertaker, not a teacher. As students, we sat in perfectly straight rows, our books and supplies stacked and aligned neatly on a cage-like shelf beneath our desks, our hands politely folded, sitting proud and tall as our teacher entered the room. There was no comment, cough, or whisper, nor was there humour or talking out. There was absolute stunning discipline, teaching, and learning. I think that year, with Mr. Stockie’s super structure, I started to turn the academic corner and began the route to becoming a worthy student. To this day, I’m still not certain if it was my absolute fear, or respect, for Mr. Stockie that was the initial catalyst, but I do know something in that classroom resonated and clicked in my life and prompted the motivation forward.
Social Studies class is where my love for History and Geography initially took root. I was inspired by my teacher, Mr. Eyler, who happened to be an Ontario weightlifting champion. He was short and obviously well built—despite his best efforts, due to his muscularity, he could not put his arms down by his sides. It was not his strength that so inspired me, though; it was his kindness, knowledge, and understanding that drew me to study in earnest and take real interest in his subject.
He also kept snakes and reptiles in his classroom. It was because of Mr. Eyler that I launched my lucrative side business at home, raising hamsters and white mice in large quantities to feed his boas and other classroom pets. As it turned out, he got me started in my cottage business. My mother was never quite pleased with the rows of cages I had built and installed in a back shed, but she never discouraged me either.
School was a pivotal place in my life at that time. It was where I met some life-long friends and joined school clubs and teams while getting on track with my academics. Now I watch these meandering boys from my retirement condo overlooking my former public school, and I wonder, with all the changes and challenges, how is their school day? Are kids still inspired as I was with excellent teachers, or is that just another outdated, corny concept? Are there many daily distractions with technology and all the screens, streaming, texting, and gaming? Are attention spans shorter and the capacity for discipline diminished? How are their numeracy and literacy skills? Do they even study Home Economics or Industrial Arts? Could they build a hamster cage or make their own lunch?
I would certainly like to think that these two boys who I regularly observe, who linger and kick stones across the pavement, are in store for an excellent day of education and that their day will be something like those I enjoyed in my youth.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Marty Rempel
Marty Rempel, now retired for the fourth time, has been an educator in many capacities and places, serving as a teacher in Germany, Kuwait, and the Bahamas; Special Education Co-ordinator in Northern Alberta with Cree and Dene students; and principal in Jinhua, China. Last June he retired as principal from a private school in Markham, ON, which caters to students from mainland China. Now he spends his time reading the news while drinking dark coffee on his balcony, solving world problems, writing, and planning his next trip with his lovely wife.
This article is featured in Canadian Teacher Magazine’s Winter 2025 issue.
