Reflections on 45 Years of Teaching

 

Reflections on 45 Years of Teaching

 

As I sit in my living room isolating because of my fragile health status, I am protected from the outside world and the Covid virus threat by my picture window and by my avoidance of public contact with people. Through the window I view the passing parade on my personal stage, Bonner Avenue. Often as I sit there waiting for the approach of spring and its promise of warmer temperatures, and watching for new participants in the parade, I reflect on the past.

 At 78 years of age, I have experienced a lot in my life. As I recall past events, I often stir up some recollections which have been safely stored in some “dim” recesses of my mind. Many are pleasant and happy reminders of my many experiences. Some are not so happy, and some are recollections that I have tried to forget because they are so sad or because they left me feeling frustrated because I could do little or nothing to alleviate some situation.

 In teaching as in any other professions or jobs or workplace experiences, there are all kinds of people you interact with. In my case it was mostly students and educators and support staff. I categorized them in my mind by referring to an old Clint Eastwood movie – “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly!”

 Good students could be said to be those who wanted to learn, who were willing to learn new concepts, and who helped their fellow students, and who as a rule, did not disrupt the classroom protocols. Good teachers would have the attributes of liking their students, would come up with suitable ways to help their students to achieve educational goals in the class, solve problems fairly and without rancor, and who were people who “liked” their “job, not for the money, but for the satisfaction of teaching others.

 Bad students? Other teachers might say they were those students who resisted efforts to teach them, not because of inability on their parts, but because they liked to be disruptive. I never considered any students to be bad even though these so-named students were a most often assigned to me because I “could handle them”! Principals most often did this because they knew that I did not send students to the office to be disciplined and thus these “bad students” would not be problems for administration to deal with. Bad teachers?  I considered them to be those who were in it mainly for the money. On their part there was little thought put into fresh or new lessons but more of a total reliance on past assignments from previous years, and no inclination to make their daily lessons interesting or exciting. “Very little bang for the buck!”

 Support staff? These were the custodial staff – the janitors, the cleaners, the techies, the cooks and the secretaries - I loved them all and really appreciated what they did for me. All you had to do was to treat them like equals, like real people who also had dreams and aspirations, and they would often work miracles for you.

 We come to the ugly. I truly only encountered only one of these students. He was totally amoral. He lied, he manipulated, he was very spiteful and hurtful and was a bully. Later I found out his father was both very physically and mentally abusive to the boy. This young man was cautioned not to talk to anyone about his treatment at home. I dealt with him fairly but there were times when I really wanted to get him out of my sight.

 In my “books”, ugly teachers were those who abused the fact that they were in charge and were mostly free to do as they wished in their classrooms. Some of them treated some of their students horribly. They heaped mental abuse on them with occasional physical abuse thrown in. These teachers should have been run out of the teaching profession. Most were not and many principals solved their problems with these teachers by having them transferred to other schools. Out of sight, out of mind.

 Often different memories come swirling out of the mists of the past. One was of a student whose sixth-grade class had been transferred to our school because their school was too small physically to accommodate the large number of students from the surrounding neighborhood. These students were distributed equally among our four sixth grade classes. One of these students very seemed shy. But she always seemed to have a pleasant smile on her face whenever we made eye contact. During one of our assignments, I discovered that she had a wonderful gift for drawing and a remarkable eye for colors. I made a fuss over her work and a few days later she brought in some other art pieces she had worked on at home. They were astounding. As we got to know more about each other through the course of the school year, she discovered that my tastes in music were rather mundane. One day she brought in a cassette for me to listen to. It was Bridge Over Troubled Waters by Simon and Garfunkel. Then and there I was hooked. They became and still are two of my favorite recording artists. I am happy to say that 50 some years later this student and I are still good friends.

 Another memory was from a time I was teaching English in a Mexican school in Guadalajara. It was an American school, the American School Foundation of Guadalajara. It had 1300 students and a staff of roughly 50% Spanish speaking Mexican teachers, many of whom were bilingual, and 50% imported teachers from countries where English was the main language. In this latter group were two actual teachers who had trained to be teachers. They vast majority of this group had no teaching expertise but could speak English and were willing to teach the mostly Mexican kids despite the very low salaries.

 On opening day, the new students to the school were assembled in the auditorium to be assigned to their new classes. Most were American and Canadian and Japanese whose parents had been deployed to work in the Mexican subsidiaries of businesses and diplomatic corps of their respective countries.

 I noticed one student who stood out from the group. Her jeans were torn, her makeup was “interesting”, and she had a sullen look on her face which to me cried out, “I don’t want to be here!” I made a silent wager with myself that she would be assigned to one of my classes.

 Sure enough next day, there she was in my class, which had a mixed array of Mexican and “foreign” students. I soon found out again that I should not judge a person by his or her appearance. I found her to be an avid reader and a writer and she became one of my best students. We shared ideas for books and for writing and we developed a friendship which has lasted to this day.

 Then there was Miguel at the same school but in a different class. He was part of a group of Mexican students who were not as proficient in English as they should have been after being in the bilingual stream for so many years in the school. This class was the most difficult to handle at this school. Yet when I compared them to some of the classes I had “worked’ with at home in Canada, they were pussycats. They tested me to see what they could get away with. I kept my cool with them and then I started to praise Miguel for his apparent ability in English. He admitted to me that he had lived in Chicago for much of his life and had only returned to Mexico when his mom remarried.

 Now Miguel and I had a common bond as I had spent much time getting to know Chicago when my brother-in-law lived there. Soon we were discussing ball teams, restaurants, tourist spots, the El, and a lot of things he and were aware of. I also noticed after about a week that the class’s behavior now made them one of my easiest classes to teach. One of the girls came up to me in the cafeteria after I had praised the class on their self-discipline and how well they were doing. She said it was because Miguel, a pretty tough character, had put the word out that anybody who messed with “Meester Breeski” was going to have to deal with him after school was dismissed for the day! I later learned Miguel lived in a shed apart from the house because his stepdad would not tolerate his presence in the house. He was subjected to verbal abuse from the stepdad. In me he found an accepting male figure and he responded to my “kind” treatment of him.

 These are the kinds of memories that come back to me and make me realize how rich my working life had been and how much I had enjoyed my 45 year journey in education. Each day new memories crop up. The thousands of students I worked with have become somewhat dim in my memory. Some of their names are lost to me. Some of the first students I first taught are now grandparents.  A few are great-grandparents. But they were all precious to me and occasionally some of them “visit” me as I reminisce.

 

 

Tommy Douglas

 

Tommy Douglas

Tommy Douglas was a Scottish Canadian politician who had been a Baptist minister. He served as Premier of Saskatchewan from 1944 to 1961. He became leader of the New Democratic Party from 1961 to 1971. While he was premier of Saskatchewan, his cabinet under the party banner of Co-operative Commonwealth Federation, or CCF, was the first democratic socialistic government in North America. It introduced the continent’s first single-payer, universal health care program and was the fore-runner of our universal health care system in place across all of Canada today. In 2004, a CBC television program named Tommy Douglas “The Greatest Canadian” based on a Canada wide, viewer supported survey.

I first saw Mr. Douglas at a speech he gave at Madge Lake in Duck Mountain provincial Park in the 1940’s. He was standing on the back of a three-ton farm truck, speaking to several hundred people who were gathered to hear him. Most of the group were farmers, including my dad. My dad hoisted me onto his shoulders so I could see better and so that I wasn’t inadvertently trampled in the crush of the crowd. As Tommy was up there “orating” from his “pulpit” on the back of the truck – he was a tremendous public speaker – I began to slowly wave my hand at him. I kept this up for several moments. At one point in his speech, he stopped and smiled and then he waved back at me and continued with his speech. I was so pleased with myself. It isn’t often that a three-year old gets recognized by an important adult in a big crowd.

The Colonel and I

 

The Colonel and I

In 1958 Oscar Gruber, son of Polish immigrants, brought the Kentucky Fried Chicken franchise to Winnipeg. It became part his Champs Drive-In located at Sherbrook and Notre Dame and would be the start of a chain that would benefit both him and Colonel Harland Sanders in its operations in Canada.

Colonel Sanders did a lot to promote his franchises here and in the United States and abroad. He traveled to various cities promoting the excellence of KFC chicken which was flavored with his, oh, so tasty secret recipe. One memorable night in the summer of 1973, he arrived at Charlie Krupp Fastball Park with Oscar Grubert in a white limousine to take in a double header game between his namesake Colonels, who were sponsored by Mr. Grubert, and an opposing team from the newly formed Western Major Fastball League.

They exited the limo and made their way to the press box, where as manager of the ball park, I became their unofficial tour leader. Bob York was the official scorekeeper and the public address system announcer. Between our explanations and Bob’s announcements, we managed to bring both Oscar and the Colonel up to speed on the differences between baseball and this “fastball” game. The Colonel was a quick learner.

Between games, Sanders was brought to home plate where Bueckert, the Colonel’s manager, welcomed him, and showed him a team warm-up jacket with the iconic photo of the Colonel that you see on every KFC store on its back. Grubert and Bueckert helped the Colonel remove his white suit jacket and replaced it with the black Colonels one. Before the PA system could be switched back to the press box, Sanders turned to Grubert and said, much to the delight of the large crowd, "You got something to do with these boys, Oscar?"  

They didn’t stay for the second game because there were other stops on his whirlwind tour. Before they left, they both thanked Bob and me for being such good hosts. Oscar than gifted me with a fistful of free dinner coupons which I was to share with all “my” employees at the park. A nice gesture on his part.

And so with one last wave of the Colonel’s Stetson, they entered the limo and were off to their next stop on the city tour.

 

 

Then and Now

 

Then and Now

As I look at my two sons’ families, I smile because they have each gifted me with 3 delightful grand daughters. One family has the girls’ ages at 15, 12, and 11. The other family has girls who are 9, 7, and 4. Of course they are as smart as whips and intellectually and physically (athletics, sports, and dance) gifted. I know, I know. But grandparents are permitted/allowed to brag and perhaps exaggerate a little bit.

I look at what they are allowed or asked to do as they fill a role in their families. There is

some “helicoptering”. There is a lot of community pressure in the form of political

correctness. It is a different “time’ from my childhood days of the 1940’s and the 1950’s.

Those of you young enough who have children of these ages or if you are a grandparent

of children of these ages, you will know today’s norms.

 

We moved back to the farm from our neighboring village of Wroxton when I was 7 years old. This opened up a whole new world of activities and demands on our family. My dad was now farming again and my mom was in seventh heaven because she now had all the garden space she wanted or needed.

We had two fields of summer fallow near our yard. They were each about 30 acres in size. The rest of the farm stretched out to include an extra 180 acres. Most of it was arable with some hay meadows, a pasture, and some treed acres from which we derived our firewood for the year.

We had two tractors, a Small John Deere and a much larger Allis Chalmers with all the bells and whistles. My dad would let me sit on his lap as he worked the smaller plots with the john Deere. Usually he would disk the soil and then harrow it to keep free of weeds. Soon he let me steer the tractor only taking over at the turning at the end of the field. Eventually I got to do that. As I showed that I could handle the job, he sat on the fender while I had the whole seat and complete charge of the steering wheel. Eventually he would sit in some shade at the end of the field while I handled the tractor by myself. When he saw that I was to be trusted and that I was capable, he simply went back to do some other required work in the yard.

It was like this with both of my parents. As I grew older more chores and jobs were assigned to me after I had received instruction and hands-on training. By time I was 10, I had graduated to the “big” tractor and I was taking my turns at working all the fields. At this age my dad taught me to drive our half-ton truck because I could now reach the clutch and shift gears properly. This came in handy when I was twelve and he bought a combine and a grain auger. I could now take the grain from the combine while he was driving it and take it back to the farmyard where we had our granaries and I would manually off-load it into the auger’s hopper where it would be augured into the granary.

When I was nine my mom started teaching me how to milk a cow. By lots of practice and with a very patient cow, I soon mastered the fine art of pulling the teats properly. I could never approach my mom’s level of dexterity. She milked her four cows in the time it took me to milk my one patient cow.

My mom and dad relied on my help. I felt like I was a good contributor. Chores I was responsible for:

·         separating the milk and storing the cream in a special container that hung by a rope into the cool depths of our well;

·         feeding the pigs their mixture of chopped grain and skimmed mild from the separator;

·         feeding the chickens, geese, and turkeys with their mixtures of grains;

·         feeding the dogs their chopped grain and skimmed milk;

·         feeding the cats bread soaked in skimmed milk – they had to catch mice for protein;

·         feeding the cows their hay forked down from the loft;

·         turning the cows out to the corral and feeding them hay;

·         in the warmer months after milking, chasing the cows to the pasture and retrieving them in the evening for milking;

·         cleaning up the manure from the cattle and fowl and spreading out fresh clean straw;

·         helping my mom plant and weed and water her huge garden;

·         in fall helping her harvest the “fruits of our labor” and helping her prepare the “fruits” to be canned;

·         mowing our large lawns;

·         keeping the wood box filled

·         keeping the water pail in the kitchen filled for consumption in cooking and drinking

·         cleaning snow off the paths

·         washing the truck

·         helping my dad cut down our wood supply for next year

·         chopping wood

·         helping my mom with washing dishes

I am sure there were many other jobs and chores. Many of them my grandchildren would love to attempt and many they can do now. But many are not options available in an urban setting. Some I was allowed to do so early because three people eased the load of work on two people. When I had proven my competency and did my work capably and safely, I was glad to do them to help my family. Many of these chores and jobs had to be done before or after school. When the summer holidays came, I worked harder but I enjoyed being out of doors and working with animals and generally contributing. I am glad I had these experiences growing up. Do I wish this type of life for my granddaughters? I can't honestly answer that.

The Slingshot

 When we moved to Vryenhoek Crescent in 1973, we were close to Mother Nature. You would have to walk a long block to Raleigh Avenue and then cross it and the railroad tracks, cross Gateway Avenue and then you were in a “forest”. The forest was located south of Springfield Road, an area now encroached by civilization and most of the forest obliterated. It stretched all the way to Highway 59, later Lagimodiere Boulevard. It wasn’t a forest in the true sense. But there were many trees and small ponds surrounded by willows.

On weekends my two sons, aged about 5 and 3 at that time, and I often went exploring in these woods. They loved it and it gave their mom some uninterrupted “me-time”. In the “forest” there were black and white poplars of varying sizes. There were saskatoon and chokecherry and pin cherry bushes which you had to know where to look to find them. There were willows, both diamond and other varieties – pussy willow, goat willow, and the white willow. There were many birds flitting about and the occasional nesting pair of ducks. We saw small animals such as rabbits, hares, squirrels, chipmunks, and the odd fox. Occasionally we would startle a deer out of hiding. It was a wonderful place to explore.

We would build small forts from fallen trees and branches. From this home base we would go looking for imaginary foes. To fight our foes we made some very rudimentary slingshots using diamond willows for the wood base. We could not shoot our small pebbles at living creatures but only at our imaginary foes. When we were constructing these “weapons” my memory hearkened back to a n earlier time when I was just a young boy.

The Slingshot

Growing up on a farm on Saskatchewan in the the 1940's and 1950's gave me many opportunities that are unavailable to most urban children of today.  One of them was that I was taught how to use a Cooey .22 calibre single shot rifle.  I was taught the rudiments of shooting and using the rifle safely was drilled into me.
It was also a fact that you would never shoot the rifle unless it was for a good reason - shooting an animal or a bird for the table, ridding the farm of a rodent or carnivore which came hunting our chickens, ducks, or geese.  My father did not condone the shooting of something just for the sport of it.  As well, if you fired the weapon you were responsible for replacing the bullet if you missed at what you were shooting.

I early on decided I did not like killing animals or birds and since I would have to pay for any bullets I used in plain target shooting - plinking cans or shooting at insulators on telephone and hydro poles. The latter I did once and I received one of my dad's lectures. He never raised his hand or his voice to us but when he was finished with one of his lectures, we felt about an inch high and very ashamed of the dastardly deed we had been remonstrated for. I was careful in selecting my targets after that.

Because of this cost for ammunition, I adopted another type of "weapon", the slingshot.  A well - constructed slingshot was a thing of beauty.  It felt good in your hand, and if made well, it was a formidable weapon. It fit into the back pocket of your jeans and no self-respecting prairie farm boy would be without one during the months when there was no snow on the ground.

Making the slingshot was an art in itself. First you had to find a sturdy, y-shaped piece of wood. By piece of wood, I mean the forked branch of a sturdy diamond willow. The piece of willow had to be about 6-9 inches long, depending on your hand size and your arm strength. I tried to find a piece with as few imperfections as possible because even moderate flaws such as a crack can render your slingshot dangerous or unusable.  If there were knots or bumps on the y-shaped branch, I cut or sanded them off.

Then I would peel off the bark. With the bark gone, the slingshot was more comfortable to hold. I would let the wood dry for a few days.  This drying ensured more stability and strength. To form the firing mechanism, you needed some strong rubber.  As surgical tubing was non-existent on the farm and strong elastic bands difficult to obtain, I used the next best thing - the rubber from a discarded inner tube.  With sharp scissors, I would cut 2 strips of inner tube, each about a half - inch wide.  I would experiment with the length to find out what worked best, but the important part was that the tubing had to be strong and thick.  A newly discarded tube worked best as one that had weathered for awhile tended to become brittle and the rubber bands could break at a most inopportune time.

Then I would find an old shoe and cut off the tongue.  Out of this I would cut a rectangular piece of leather between 2-4 inches in length and width.  This would become my holder or "pocket" for the ammunition. Then with a pocketknife, I would cut two slits into the pocket.  I made the slits just large enough for the rubber band to fit through without being wrinkled. Then I would slip one end of one of the rubber bands through the slit and fold it back over itself so that it made a little loop around the edge of the pocket.  I would then secure the loop by tying a small length of leather shoe lace doubled or tripled around itself to make it tight enough. I would do this with both strips of rubber.

The next step was to lash the rubber bands to the slingshot body.  I would secure with the strip of leather shoe lace, one of the long rubber bands to the back of one branch of the "Y", and then secure the other long rubber band to the back of the other branch of the "Y", both near the tips of the branches. I would make sure the bands were of equal length.

As ammunition, I would use small rounded stones that I collected from the highway running past our farm.  And for targets...tin cans placed a top of fence posts.  But my favorite target would be a small rectangular piece of board fashioned roughly into looking like a small ship.  Usually I would mount 2 or 3 upright pieces of dowelling on this board to which I glued paper "sails".  The boat or boats (I often made a small fleet) would be launched onto our slough.  Then from the banks I would attempt to destroy this armada with my trusty slingshot. I spent many an enjoyable hour honing my shooting skills on these cans and boats and the wild life in insulators were free from any predatory attacks on my part.