It was during my Grade 7 year at Dalewood Public School in St. Catharines, ON, that I began to realize teachers were people too, with personalities and feelings. Seems like an obvious thing to say now, but not so much as a young self-centred teenager. It was then that I saw my homeroom teacher cry in class, and my principal exhibit an amazing sense of humour, which helped set such a relaxed mood in the entire school that I no longer feared walking past the office as I did at my previous school. There were teachers at Dalewood with different teaching styles representing their unique personalities that year, and it made a difference in how I approached school. I came a long way from the days when I might see one of my teachers in public and literally wonder how do they exist outside the classroom environment?
Probably everyone of my generation knows where they were on November 22, 1963, when it was reported to the world that President John F. Kennedy had been shot in Dallas, Texas, while riding in a motorcade with his wife Jacqueline. I remember it was a Friday, the last day of a long school week.
I was more than a little curious when my teacher came to the front of the room late. It was clear to the class that she was very upset and had been crying. She started to talk in a very hesitant and quiet voice, unlike her usual more dominant style, to tell us that the American President had been shot.
I can’t remember if we were dismissed early that day, but it was a sombre afternoon as we all absorbed the news in our young minds, in our own ways. It was watching my teacher in tears, giving us tragic news, that I realized for the first time that teachers have real human emotions like everyone else.
I remember Dalewood School for that historic event and also for all the friends and teachers I had in a very pivotal year in my life. Until then, teachers were magical, powerful, distant creatures who seemed to have a life or an existence only during school hours.
Mr. McGregor (I’m sure he had a first name, but as students, we were not privy to that level of personal information) was not only the principal but my History teacher as well. His classroom was conveniently located next to his office— the official seat of power. This fact normally would instill fear in the hearts of most students because inside that office, in some side drawer, was the strap through which student folklore gave the principal an aura of mystical power. Mr. McGregor didn’t rely on that fear to inspire respect.
One of my first encounters with Mr. McGregor occurred in the hallway where students were expected to walk in straight, quiet lines between classes— quickly, efficiently, and directly. At one point, there was a lag in my line, and I leaned against the wall for a relaxing, lazy moment. Mr. McGregor, standing at the intersection of two hallways, looked out at the situation, and for some reason, focussed on me leaning on the wall as if I were the cause of the delay. He walked directly to me and stood right in front of me as I leaped to attention. We locked eyes. Mine showed fear; his complete dominance. In a loud, stern voice which I remember to this day, he said, “Do you know what would happen if every student in this line were to lean on this wall at the same time?”
He paused briefly for dramatic effect, his eyes never leaving mine. I was waiting for the answer as Moses waited for the ten commandments with heightened anticipation. He said profoundly and in total seriousness, “Absolutely nothing!” He then gave me a big smile, a kind pat on my shoulder and rapidly walked away as the line began to move to the next class. I knew then I had no reason to fear the man. He had a sense of humour. A teacher with that sense is a beacon of hope and safety.
I think that one simple hall incident bonded me to Mr. McGregor and, subsequently, I was always trying to please him. As a result, I did well in his class. He taught History like a storyteller, naturally with much humour. He presented facts in an entertaining fashion as if every lesson were a spectacular bedtime story. I looked forward to his classes and watched for him in the hallways, always.
My Industrial Arts teacher, whose name I honestly can not remember, had a different style of teaching. He was a practical and direct individual, very mellow and relaxed, yet with high expectations for student performance. Apparently, he had no interest in giving notes on his subject. During the first days of orientation, including safety lessons on the power tools and the various ways we could lose fingers, impale ourselves, or go blind, he also gave us the notebooks from the previous Grade 7 graduates. Our job was to copy all the notes over the next several days, and that would serve as our study reference for the year. No note-taking after that point! Later, I wondered about the accuracy of that method, given that the original set of notes, dating back probably many years, was likely not divinely inspired and, after being passed on, copied, and recopied several times, was packed with errors.
Despite the notes, I did make an attractive wooden bowl on a lathe, a lamp that looked like a Conestoga wagon, and a name plate I could place on my desk, tooled in leather. Although I never became a handyman by any metric, I did learn much from that class and others during my years in school. It saddens me to think that today, these practical programs are in short supply for all students.
I had Geography class with Ms Higgins, who I remember for having patience with me during map orientation and cartography. Working with an Ontario road map, we had to perform various tasks based on mapping information and using our spatial ability. I could do that part fairly well, but try as I might, I could never fold the map back to its original shape. It was shameful, and although some students laughed at me, my teacher gently and quietly showed me the fold lines and got me back on track with minimal loss of face. I loved her for that small gesture of kindness and understanding. In later life, I heralded the arrival of GPS maps. Ironically, I too became a Geography teacher who used road maps in class.
Strange the things one remembers when looking back on the friends you once had and the varied experiences during a single year in school. I recall my friend Chris, who had a trained pet crow that knew how to fly to school at dismissal time and meet Chris as he came out the door. I wondered how that was even possible as I witnessed the crow perch on my friend’s extended arm and stare at me with his dark black eyes. Chris’s tricks with his crow gave him an incredible level of status!
I now marvel at the freedom I had going to school over several kilometres with my friends by bicycle each day. I truly enjoyed most of those rides. We discussed our teachers, our current “crushes,” and sports. I’m not sure school buses were even in widespread use back then. Certainly, I never rode on one until I became a teacher myself.
I played on the school hockey, baseball, and track and field teams and was fortunate to have coaches who encouraged me during games and competitions. Looking back, I think I was exceptionally lucky to have had the group of teachers and friends I did that year. Teachers who were genuine and showed their true selves and values. I wasn’t an excellent student, but I enjoyed school because they created a positive school climate, making it more conducive for students to have the desire to work and play.
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 2026 issue.
