First Love

When I was about eight years old, I fell deeply in love. Oh, sure, I had had serious crushes before! But this was the real thing! Unfortunately, the woman I fell in love with was about fifteen years older than I was. Not only that but she lived in another country and moved around in a different circle of friends, a circle I couldn’t even visualize let alone think of joining. She was a gifted singer and she was beautiful beyond words to my eight-year-old eyes. She was the Singing Rage, Miss Patti Page, and the song that she sang on the radio, to me, was The Tennessee Waltz. Though you may laugh, I was smitten…badly smitten!

Now life serves up many ironies which can make life thus very interesting. In this case flash forward in my life eleven years. I am now nineteen years old, it is February, and my brother and I are on a holiday trip by car in the south-western United States. We are way ahead of our time in that we would today be considered snowbirds. Back then we were simply fortunate enough to be able to enjoy a winter holiday. There were so many advantages then. Motels and meals were half the cost of summer-time rates. Places of interest we wanted to visit had no lineups. Usually we were their only visitors for the day and received extra time and attention. Being Canadians meant that often we were treated to rounds of drinks in bars or restaurants. Yes, it was a good time to be traveling.

Our trip eventually led us to Las Vegas which at that time had a population of about 25,000. The Strip was just in its first stages of development. We stayed at a motel a block from the crossroads of Las Vegas for the hefty sum of $12 a night. At night we went to the Desert Inn located just south on “The Strip”. We would tip the maitre d’ and try to get good seats where we could have an excellent meal as well as be entertained by the featured entertainers.

Our first night we were fortunate enough to be seated in the main floor area where we could see Jimmy Durante and his musical partner, Eddie Jackson. They kept us all in stitches with their humor and their choice of songs. Their show that evening ended up with the destruction of the stage piano which they had been maltreating all evening.

But the following night for me was the fulfillment of a dream. We arrived early but were only able to secure a table on the level surrounding the main dining area where we had sat the night before. Still this was better than no table at all. And why was I so excited? The headliner that night was “That Singing Rage, Miss Patti Page”!

After the meals had been served and the tables cleared, Miss Page appeared on stage. She was “backed” by a stage band. She went up to the microphone and in her beautiful voice proceeded to sing. I was enraptured. My first love! One of my favorite singers! Here in front of us! In person! Could life get any better? Well, yes, it could.

She loosened the mike from the stand and proceeded to walk among the tables and singing into the mike. It was a recent invention! A portable mike! As she strolled among the tables, singing and making eye-contact with the guests, she glanced up at us in the “cheap” seats. She paused as she finished her song and strode purposefully to a set of stairs leading up to our level. As she got to the top, the stage band broke into “Let Me Go, Lover!” She started to sing it as she neared our table. She stopped at our table and looked straight at me. With an inquisitive glance as she continued singing, she gently pointed at me, and plunked herself down onto my lap and proceeded to direct the words of her song directly at me. As she sang, she stroked her free hand gently through my hair, lightly twisting my brush cut, and smiling sweetly at me.

Those of you who know me will know I was turning all sorts of red colors, and yet, there was in me a sort of fulfilling feeling. Not everyone can have a famous beautiful singer of his youthful dreams sitting on his lap in a night club and singing to him. As she was finishing her song, she arose from my lap, lightly caressed my cheek with her free hand, gave me a big smile for being such a “good sport”, and went back down to the main area! Me, I was in heaven! Nirvana! You name it! I was there. Speechless! Happy! And thinking back to when I was eight years old and this was only a dream!

Chauffeuring Without A License

 

While working at the Canadian National Railways(CNR), I was in my 3 years of employment there  always working "off the spareboard". This meant that I never had a steady job. I was always called up hours,or rarely, days before to report to a certain yard to do a certain job at a certain time. This meant I would report and work one shift for which I would receive the pay that a regular person working that job on a full-time basis would receive. The day was split up into 3 parts with shifts starting at 8:00, 16:00 and 24:00 or in layman's terms 8:00 a.m. and 4:00 p.m. and at midnight.

Because I learned the jobs I was assigned to quickly and performed them well, I was considered to be a great asset to the spare board. I had worked all the jobs that could be worked off the spare board and I had an advantage over some of the other members on the spare board who had more seniority than I did because not all of them could do all the jobs. Thus I was often called ahead of more senior members simply because I could work the shift required and they couldn't because they lacked the expertise.

However there was one job that I could do but I would never receive a call for and that was being a chauffeur. I did not only not have a chauffeur's license, I did not have a regular driver's license. While I could drive any car or truck or van because of my driving experience dating back to when my Dad taught me to drive a car at age 12 and the fact that I had been driving the farm truck and doing farming operations with a tractor since I was 8, legally I could not drive a CNR van because I had never got a driver's license.

The reason for that was my failure at age 16 to pas my driving test on my first and only attempt to get a license back in Saskatchewan in the small city of Yorkton. I was failed on a technicality. The week I was taking my test, new traffic lights had just been installed which had a green arrow for a right turn. I aced my test but at the light where I was to make a right turn on the green arrow, I slowed down, saw that there was no traffic coming from my left, and made my turn.

When we got back to the testing headquarters, my driving tester said he had to check on something with his boss. It turns out that he didn't know either that the new rule for a right turn on a red light with a right turn arrow was that you had to come to a dead stop, see that there was no oncoming traffic, and then proceed to make your turn. He had to check the rule with his boss. After about 15 minutes of discussion it was ruled I had gone through a red light resulting in an automatic fail.

My dad was not amused with this decision. Really? Being failed on a technicality that even the examiner was unsure of. Needless to say he voiced his opinion of the examiner crew chief and that led me to believe that if ever I went back for a re-test here, my chances of success would be slim and none.

I managed to get along without a license quite fine on the farm and when I moved to Winnipeg, getting around in the city was fairly easy and decidedly cheap. Buses ran often and covered lots of territory.

One night when I was working as a car checker in the Local Yard in Symington, I got a call at the Local Tower to contact the chief clerk at the yard office ASAP.  With my interest peaked, I did so. The chief was a young man in his early thirties - about 15 years younger than most of the other staff he was supervising. Like me, he, too, was one of the "new wunderkinder".

He advised me that his chauffeur had not showed up for his 20:00 to 04:00 assignment and that he was desperate for a driver to take a train crew from Symington to the Union Depot where they would be crewing the SuperContinental passenger from Winnipeg to Saskatoon. It was already 22:00 hours and they were slated to leave at 22:30. A taxicab could be ordered but the company was loath to guarantee a quick or efficient pickup. Could I drive them was his next question to me.

I replied that I could but that I had no driver's license. He was so desperate that he asked me to quickly run to the yard office which was about a kilometre from the tower I was in. He would lend me his driver's license and the crew would already be in the van. He said that he was desperate and that if we couldn't get the crew there as soon as possible, the company would likely be handing out a lot of demerit points or "brownies" as we referred to them.

I ran as quickly as my 20 year old legs would carry me. Arriving at the van almost completely out of breath, I speechlessly accepted his license and the keys and got almost pushed behind the steering wheel all the while being aware of the crew's "What the heck is going on?" stares.

Accelerating quickly and smoothly I powered the 9-passenger van onto Lagimodiere Boulevard and headed for Marion Street all the while checking my mirrors for signs of Winnipeg's efficient police force. I drove smoothly and at speed limit down Marion Street heading for Main and Broadway. As we crossed the Red River where Marion ran into Main Street, I was passed by a police cruiser in a big hurry. They "blew" by me without a second glance. With a quiet sigh of relief, I turned into the parking lot behind the Depot where the crew disembarked and quickly made their way to the passenger train which was quietly idling on the track in the station awaiting its crew.

Now I had to get back to Symington Yard taking the same route in reverse. Fortunately for me I encountered no police and was not involved in any kind of an accident. The fact that the hour was now late, there was hardly any traffic on the streets of Winnipeg in that year of 1962.

Back at the yard office, I attempted to give the chief clerk his driver's license and the van keys. He said I should hang on to the keys because I was going to be doing the whole shift as a chauffeur but now all my trips would only involve  driving in Symington Yard picking up and delivering crews to the various freight trains that were leaving and arriving in the yard. He also said I would be getting 4 of those chauffeur hours at time and a half because i had already worked most of my 16:00 to 24:00 shift as a car checker. Bonus! And I got to drive a van around the yard rather than hoofing it as a car checker often has to. Ah, life was sweet!

Driver's Test

Driver's Test

　

It was 6 years since I had arrived in Winnipeg fresh off our Saskatchewan farm. All this time I had survived without a driver's license due to the facts that Winnipeg in 1966 still had an excellent bus system that was easy and cheap to access and also because I couldn't up to now really afford afford a car.

That all changed when my brother decided to that he wanted to get his Master's degree in civil engineering at Georgia Tech. He was enrolled for the fall semester. This was just a few months away but he had decided on doing a road trip of about 6 weeks through the U.S. prior to him leaving by plane from Winnipeg to Atlanta in Georgia where the university was located. He invited me to join him in Chicago when I had finished my teaching for that school year. But he said that in order to travel with him I would have to share the driving!

"That means you need to get a license now! Before I leave! So I can see it in your hand! Understand?"

I understood. He would even lend me his car for the test. His car was a 1959 Porsche convertible. It was unique and rare for its time in Winnipeg. I had driven it before because I had got my learner's license a year previously and so I could drive the Porsche with him in the passenger seat. I loved that car! I made an appointment for a road test. The driver testing was located on Portage Avenue near Sherburn Street.

The day of the test, my brother and I drove to the test site and we parked in the huge lot behind the building. As we got out of the car which had its top down, he handed me the keys, wished me luck, and set off for home which was about a dozen blocks away.

Wow! Talk about confidence or pressure. Confidence in that he was trusting that I would pass my test and be able to drive home! Pressure in the fact that if I failed I would have to phone him and he would have to walk the dozen blocks back to get his car which I wouldn't be able to drive home.

"I guess I better pass!" was my only thought.

I entered the building, paid for my test, took a number and sat down with a dozen other hopefuls. We were an interesting lot. Our confidence levels ranged from extremely cocky to "ashen-faced-I-am-so-nervous-I-am-going-to-be-sick!"

Slowly our numbers dwindled. Then my number came up and a portly young man summoned me for my test! This was a momentous time for me. We walked down a hall and out a back door to the parking lot. He asked me where the car that I would be driving was . I led him to the Porsche. He stopped and looked at me and looked at the car and looked at me again.

"Uh oh!" I thought to myself. "This does not bode well for me." He looked at me again and my immediate thought was that coming to take a test in a Porsche was not a wise idea. He probably figured that I would be a speed demon and to give me a pass would be to invite damnation on all Winnipeg drivers! That was what I was thinking.

He looked at me and then asked me how I had I got to this parking lot! Had I driven the car there by myself and then walked into the building pretending that I had been driven there? A wrong answer here would cook my goose before I even started!

"No," I stammered. "My brother whose car this is, drove me here. And since we live not too far away, he gave me the keys and then just walked home. I guess by doing that he was trying to tell me something! That he had confidence thatI would pass! I hope it was confidence."

The examiner looked at me, smiled, and said, "Let's start!"

We got in and I asked him to belt in. He looked at me and asked if it was going to be that kind of driving-test.

I replied that it wouldn't be but that that car was very manueverable and responded very quickly to any steering changes. He smiled, belted in, and we were off with the wind rippling our hair and the shine shining down warmly upon us. The examiner had a pleased look on his face and looked like he was going to enjoy his ride in this sporty convertible.

The test went well and the car and I responded well and correctly to all his driving instructions. He looked to be really enjoying himself and I began to think that maybe  my test was running longer than usual because he was enjoying himself so much when he finally gave me the directions which brought us back to the parking lot.

After I parked, he looked down at his clipboard upon which he had been writing during my test. He looked at me and then told me that I had done well. He was very impressed with my shpoulder checking and the fact that I knew where the traffic was in close proximity to me. He said he felt safe while I was driving but that he had one bit of advice for me.

I looked questioningly at him and he smiled and said, " When you change several lanes, don't do it the way most driving instructors teach you - that is check and move over one lane and then check and move over another lane. If you see that you are clear to change lanes, do it in one clean shift. And thanks for the ride in this wonderful piece of machinery!"

Inside my mind, I was doing hand springs and cartwheels of jubilation! I had my license! U.S. vacation here I come!

We went inside and in a very short while I had my piece of paper saying I was legal to drive a standard-shift auto in Manitoba. I drove home with the cheesiest grin on my face. As I turned into the parking spot in the back of our house, my brother was standing there with 2 beers in his hands. H e put them down and clapped as I parked. When I got out, he handed me a beer and we toasted my success and the time together we would spend on our time together south of the border.

Hard Times and the Bay Christmas Choir

In 1960 I was living with my parents in a third floor suite of a house on Maryland Street. It was what we could afford. My mom and dad had just moved into Winnipeg after the fall harvest. My dad, with his limited school education but with a vast knowledge of many skills that he had picked up as a farmer and in many other jobs, was looking for a job. Jobs were hard to come by in this year of a recession.
I worked one or two shifts a week with my CNR jobs off the spare board and we scraped by with what little money I made and with the proceeds from the farm auction sale that my parents had when they finally decided that running a small mixed farm at their age - they were both in their fifties - was not going to get them anywhere. Both sons lived in Winnipeg and that is where they moved. My brother spent very little time in Winnipeg as his government job as an engineer took him out of own most of the time.
Entertainment was a black and white TV with the one Winnipeg channel we could get. We made do with visits with a few friends of my mother from the old country who lived in the "NORTH END". One of them owned a restaurant and my mom picked up an occasional shift as a line cook in the kitchen of the cafe which specialized heavily in Ukrainian foods.
One bright light for me in this time just before Christmas was discovering that the Hudson's Bay Department store on Portage Avenue had a choir formed from the ranks of its store employees. Every morning from Monday to Friday, you could go into the store before opening time and listen to them perform for a half hour. The choir seemed to number about 50 voices and the selection of carols they sang was varied and the carols were sung with love and enthusiasm. The choir director seemed to bring out the best in the choir.
I would make a point of stopping in to hear them if I happened to be coming home after a midnight shift. Or if I was at home I would walk the kilometre to the Bay and enjoy the choir's selection of carols and then I would browse through the store and look at all the wonderful things on display which I couldn't afford to buy. Then I would walk back home and wait by the phone for a call to work which didn't come as often as I wished it did that first year for me on the spare board of the CNR.
Some mornings if the weather was snowy or if there was a strong wind blowing, I would stay home and listen to the choir on the radio. A local radio station - I believe it was CJOB with Red Alix - would air each performance. The program ran from 8:30 to 9:00 a.m. At the end of the half-hour, the choir would disperse back to their various work stations through out the store to carry on the day's business.
I loved these few weeks leading up to Christmas because of the festive mood the choir awoke in me. To this day the image of them aligned on the large staircase between the first and second floors and the beautiful strains of music always bring a smile to my face and a warmth to my heart!

New Year's Eve at the Fort Rouge Yard

It is just past 11:00 p.m. I get off the Stafford Street trolley bus where the run terminates and where it turns around at Pembina Highway. I walk past Bobby Jo's Motel, the Salisbury House where I eat when I can afford it on my meagre salary, and past the A and W Drive-In.

I walk up the steps and into the large old two-story building which serves as the official yard office for the Fort Rouge CNR yard. It is the nerve centre of the yard. It is from here that all instructions and outdoor workers are dispersed, work asignments are made, and crews for trains are called. Trains are assembled from cars lining the 45 parallel sets of tracks running alongside the two main lines which are just outside the south wall of the building. These yard tracks  vary in length from the mile long B1 track to the shortest D15 track of about 100 metres. Cars on these tracks are kept track of inside by means of waybills for each individual car. Checkers go out and record the numbers of each car on each track. Switchmen then use these checks to switch out particular cars and then assemble them in a particular order that will form a freight train heading out of the yard at a designated time for a designated destination. Clerks inside the office and at the loading yards at the Main Depot will have typed up the waybills describing the contents of each car. The yardmaster, armed with instructions from the general yardmaster, will relay instructions to the switching teams in the yard working with each particular switching engine. To an outsider it looks like mass confusion but everything is synchronized as all the working parts work to put the train together.

I am about 45 minutes early for my shift. I had taken the trolley bus early because the next regular one would have delivered me to Pembina and Stafford after midnight and that would have made me late for work. The person I am replacing is very happy to see me because with my consent and the chief clerk's approval, he can now leave early to get to his New Year's Eve party.

So why am I working here tonight! I could be at a party with my friends as I would not have been called for this shift in the first place. But I am here because another checker desperately wanted the night off as he had a very heavy date he could not pass up on. He asked me to take his shift which meant that I would be working on New Year's Day ( the 12 -8 shift ) and which also meant I would receive double pay for working the shift. The CNR paid its employees double wages for working on statutory holidays. I would also be working the afternoon shift which meant another shift at double pay. For a person off the spare board who had only been averaging one or two shifts a week this is a big boost for the pay check.

There are no trains leaving before the 4:00 a.m. grain train for Rainy River which will be made up of about 70 cars full of grain headed for the terminals at Ft. William/Port Arthur (now known as Thunder Bay) on Lake Superior. It will be a straight forward checking assignment which means at about 2:00 a.m. I shall have to go out into the night and check the cars on the train which is being assembled on B1. I will bring in the check. A clerk will pull the waybills and another one will put them in the order that they are on the train. At 3:00 the conductor and his crew will check into the yard office and go over the bills carefully.

At 3:15 the engine crew will report to the front end of the grain train where the engines, usually three in number, are idling. They have been brought in from the roundhouse by a hostler crew.They will tie on to the train and start building up the air pressure in the lines through the train.
Previously a group of "car knockers" from the car shop also located in the yard will have checked each journal box on each wheel on each car on the train to make sure the required felt packing was up to quality and they would add oil to each wheel so that the wheels would be well lubricated to handle the many tons of grain in the boxcar above the wheels. They also will have checked each wheel for any cracks which could lead to a wheel breaking apart under weight while traveling at a high rate of speed and thus cause a derailment and subsequent train wreck.They will also have connected the air hoses on each car to the car in front and to the one behind. Then when the air pressure is up to the required pressure, they will walk the length of the train once more to make sure all the couples are securely snug. No pressure in the air-brakes would mean the three diesels would have to start stopping the train many many miles before their destination because a train moving 90 kmph builds up a lot of mass from the thousands of tons of grain.

I am the junior checker in seniority so I will catch all the jobs, if there are any more than . But for now it looks like it will be a quiet night with only the grain train on the out-board and no trains coming in on the in-board. As the afternoon crew leaves and the midnight crew takes over there are many wishes for a happy and prosperous new year between the two groups. It will be a quiet night but a long and, for some, a lonely night. This is a night that should have been spent celebrating with family and friends.

I know some of the staff may have sneaked in some mickeys which they will share surreptitiously with friends in the lunchroom or on the sly in the toilet area. As long as they don't over-imbibe and as long as they aren't obvious, the chief clerk will say nothing. But if the general yardmaster should suddenly show up, all bets are off, and anyone caught drinking would be sent home and then have brownie points or demerits assessed against their record. A certain number of those assessed would get you fired!

At about 7:45 a.m. in the morning, the day staff start showing up. Again greetings and well-wishes are exchanged. Some of the staff are obviously hung-over and it will be a long day for them because there will probably be only one or two freight trains scheduled. I head to the bus loop after my relief shows up. I will sleep on the 20 minute ride home and then when I get home, I will wish my mom and dad a Happy New Year and head for bed. My parents and I have pooled our rent money and we share a two bedroom suite on the third flooor of a house on Maryland Street near the Misericordia Hospital. My mom will wake me at 2:00p.m. and I will get ready for the afternoon shift which starts at 4:00p.m. It will be much busier at work as the railway starts to normalize its daily operations.

And thus the start of a New Year in Winnipeg, one year removed from the farm!

Teachers' College and Pogo

In 1963 , the Manitoba Teachers College was still open and running a one year teacher training program. While teacher education in the Province of Manitoba dates back to 1882, it was only in 1935 that the Faculty of Education was created to offer programs leading to secondary teaching certificates and to M. Ed. degrees.  It was not until 1965 that the elementary school certification program and the staff of the Manitoba Teachers’ College were integrated into the University of Manitoba. As I was interested in becoming an elementary teacher, I left my  job at the CN Railway after much persuasion from my older colleagues, who did not want me to be trapped in what they felt was a dead-end albeit a well-paid career.

I started classes that fall and reported to my first class on the day following Labor Day. The main building of the College was a long, narrow stone structure. Inside the front door were the main office area on the left and the auditorium or chapel on the right. Four classrooms lined the left side on two floors along the hallway. At the opposite end to the right were staff offices and the library. On the left were more staff offices and the science room. Above this room on the second floor was the art room. From there to the hallway were more staff offices. Above the library and on the third floor at this end, I believe, were female student quarters. Above the front entrance was another classroom, known as the Quiet Room. Through this room were entrances to the projector room and the balcony of the auditorium. Above the main offices were other rooms not used for classes.

Outside the back door was a former Air Force building that was being used as the canteen and a gathering place for students when they weren't in class. Just beyond that was another large stone building. This housed a large dining-hall for the students, a smaller room for staff members, a much smaller room where the students dining-hall workers ate, and a large food preparation area.
Beyond the back of the dining-hall were three long Air Force buildings which housed the boarding students. A little distance to the north of the canteen building was the large drill hall. This is where physical education classes were taught and where indoor sports were played. To the left on the way to the drill hall was an outdoor skating rink and the infirmary.

We were about 500 students in number and between 17 and 20 years old with about 20 or so students including me who were older than that. Our numbers were to be divided into about a dozen groups of about 30 - 35 students in each class. I was assigned to Class B which consisted entirely of students who, along with English,  spoke another language. Over half of our class had students who had French as their first language. Included in that group were about 8 nuns who at that time still wore the traditional habits.

We had classes in social studies, which was divided into two separate classes of history and geography, science, primary methods, library/literature, English, English grammar, art, health, music, phys-ed, child psychology, and of course, classroom management. Some of the teachers were interesting and instructive but just as many were just playing out the string to retirement and were in my opinion simply extremely poor teachers. Into this category fell a certain teacher of classroom management who with his facial features and diminutive stature resembled a cartoon character from the funny pages of the time by the name of Pogo. This was how he was known by his students although formally he was Mr. Stewart. To his colleagues and friends and family  he was probably an "okay guy". But my perception of him, and this was shared by many other students, was that Pogo was a petty and a mean man who abused his powers as a "professor" of ours. This is a strong perception on my part, but I really felt it!

He lectured us and didn't allow for any discussion. His communication with us was to ask a question of a particular student and wait for an answer which usually did not meet up to his standard of requirement. He was very strict and brooked no movement or whispers or any laughter. Any such transgressions he seemed to take as personal affronts. He had little understanding of the workings of the young post teenage mind. Everything was by the book and by rote.

All these negatives! I tried to think of some positives...he dressed neatly; he always had his hair cut short; he was always clean-shaven; he was prompt; his hands were always perfectly manicured; he spoke in a loud clear voice; he attempted some humor but unfortunately his humor always fell flat.

We soon realized that he actually had no classroom management skills but rather kept discipline with coercive methods and threats of office discipline. He did keep us in line this way because no one wanted to fail in this class. A failing grade in any class would mean there would be no teaching certificate at the end of the year!

We learned that Pogo picked out a student in each class who became his "whipping boy".  He selected me in his first class because in addition to being a poor teacher, I suspected (strong emphasis on the 'I suspected') he might have also been a racist. Even though most of us in his class were of different ethnic backgrounds, that is non-WASP, he seemed to home in on my Polish/Ukrainian background and my ability to speak, read, and write in Ukrainian. He sometimes prefaced his remarks to me by saying this was how things were done in English.

He also was "cutting edge" in his assignment marking. I use "cutting edge" sarcastically. We had to hand in our notebooks at least once a week to the professors and they would grade us on the quality of our note taking and to also weed out any slackers. At the end of the notes they would assign a letter grade of A,B,C,D, or F. An F resulted in an immediate meeting with the teacher. Pogo, being "cutting edge" used X,Y, and Z, with X as top rank.

Because he was targeting me, I made doubly sure that in his classes I kept neat copious notes. Many students copied my notes word for word because they recognized that I did take good notes. When our books came back to us from Pogo after he marked them each week, my notes always rated a Y. He never gave me a Z because I believe he was afraid of meeting with me in a one on one meeting knowing fully well that what he was doing was not right. I knew my notes were not of Y level because the students who had copied my notes word for word always got X's.
It was a tough time for me in his class but I "sucked it up" and made it to the end of the year. It helped that my classmates were behind me and encouraged me.

Why did I not complain about Pogo to his superiors? In that time (era) this was just not done because the student was always wrong and I did not want to be kicked out of the College. So I doubled and tripled down and I was really prepared for the final exam in Classroom Management. When I walked out of the gym the morning of the exam,  I knew I had aced the test questions. But it was no surprise to me that my mark came back as a 51% and my grade as a D. But I did get  my certificate for teaching elementary education. I also left with a firm conviction in mind that I would never become a Pogo in my classroom with any of my students and I strongly felt that most often the best classroom management was to do the opposite of what Pogo had tried to inculcate us with in his class.

Several years later I attended a junior football game. It was being played in the old velodrome on a regulation-sized grass field located inside the bicycle track which ringed it. Located just off Empress Street near Polo Park in Winnipeg, the velodrome had been built for the 1967 Pan-Am games. It has since been torn down to make way for a shopping centre.

Under the stands which were located on the west side of the velodrome nearest to Empress Street was the concession stand. Further in under the stands was large tunnel-like path to access the washrooms.  At half-time I went to use the washroom facilities. Because the game had only a few die-hard fans in attendance, I was quite surprised to see approaching me in the tunnel my old nemesis from Teachers' College. He had his head down and was hurrying back to the concession stand or to his seat.

As he neared me I took a quick step to my left which put me directly in his path. He looked up as he nearly walked into me. I had stopped right in his path. He took a step to the side to go around me. I stepped to the side in the same direction and I was again in front of him blocking his progress.

Many thoughts ran through my mind of what I could say or do to him to give me some satisfaction for the mental abuse I had suffered at his hands! But I silently stood there as he focused on my face. At first there was no recognition showing on his face. Then slowly as he realized who I was, his face transformed into one of almost abject terror. His mouth was open, his eyes were fully rounded as he cast his gaze from side to side looking for an escape. The sheer look of horror on his face as he realized he was trapped in the tunnel with no savior or safety in sight caused a change in me.

I realized that in front of me was a terrified "old" man who probably lived in constant fear when he ventured outside the safe confines of his home that he would run into a student he had picked on. It was now happening to him! In that instant I also realized he was not a man I should spend my time on in seeking some form of vengeance. Rather here was a man who should be pitied for the life that lay before him. He lived in constant fear of a chance meeting with  a former student whom he had treated as he had treated me. Perhaps someone else somewhere else already had laid into him either verbally or physically!

No, I, in that short encounter, let go the ghosts of Classroom Management Past. No more would I seek revenge on Pogo in my mind. Nothing I could inflict on him would match what he faced daily in his life.

I said, "Maybe you didn't recognize me but it it's good to see you again, Mr. Stewart!"  I stepped to one side and he quickly he scurried out of the tunnel and into the night. I returned to my seat free of the baggage I had carried for several years. I really enjoyed the game that night!

Walking After Midnight

Walking After Midnight!

Recently on nostalgia radio, I heard the late Patsy Cline's rendition of Walkin' after Midnight. It triggered memories of some of my walks in Winnipeg after midnight.

I worked as a member of the CNR spare-board in Winnipeg from 1960 until 1963. In all that time I never got to work a steady job with the exception of a one or two T.V 's or temporary vacancies, which meant filling in for someone on a short vacation. I was always called to work a matter of a few hours before the shift would start. In the days before cell phones, I had to be near a phone waiting for a call to work from the crew office. This meant being available to answer the phone between 5 in the morning until 6 in the morning for the rare day shift as these mostly went to people with more seniority than I had. Then I had to be available between one p.m and two p.m for afternoon shifts and from nine p.m. to ten p.m. for midnight shift calls.

Because of my being so low in seniority, the majority of my shifts occurred in the four to midnight shift. But also because I was a quick learner and had learned the ins and outs of all the jobs available to me, I often superseded some workers who, while having more seniority than I did, could not handle the job. Thus I worked jobs as a call-boy/messenger-boy, car-checker, yard clerk, IBM machine operator, scale-man, mail-room clerk, passenger train baggage car supplier, chauffeur, the bill rack, crew calling, and on one occasion as chief clerk when none of the guys on the shift wanted to do it because of the position's many responsibilities.

I started working in September of 1960 at the tender age of 17. Initially because work was scarce for me on the spare-board, I would be lucky to get one or two shifts a week and an occasional third one if I was very lucky By November of 1961, I was working either 4 or 5 shifts a week, and the pay was generally good except for the wages of a call boy/messenger boy. I was scoring so many shifts because I could successfully work all the jobs and because I had the reputation of being a very reliable worker.

My shifts took me to the Fort Rouge yards, the CNR depot, the East Yard where the Forks is now located, Transcona, and the old Paddington yards which then in 1962 became the present Symington Marshaling Yard. I had no car so I had to rely on buses to get me to from work. Buses were more frequent back then. However because I most often worked the afternoon shift and didn't leave my place of work until midnight, buses were often not running some of the routes or came only once an hour.

My worst places of getting home from were Symington and Transcona.  Transcona was still a city apart from Winnipeg and there was a private bus line providing the transportation between it and Winnipeg. The last bus left Transcona for Winnipeg at midnight and if the chief clerk didn't release me about fifteen minutes early, I would miss the last bus because of the distance to walk/run to the little terminal from the yard office where I worked.I have described elsewhere in my blog what happened when I missed the last bus. The same applied for Symington.

Catching the last bus would mean I would get to the drop off at Portage and Main point well past midnight. If I was fortunate I might catch one of the last Portage Avenue buses heading west. Most of the time I wasn't lucky. So rather than waiting for another hour for the next one which would be the last bus running until the work bus which usually made its run between three and four in the morning, I would start hoofing it.

I usually walked on the south side of Portage as I headed west for Maryland Street. There were few people out at that time of night. Some were like me, simply trying to get home after a hard day's work. There were others who were more "interesting". Some were people reeling along after an evening of drinking. These I learned to avoid because, while many were happy in their current state, others could be surly and very edgy.

There were some transvestites and some gays who often traveled in small packs for protection. There were the occasional beat cops who in winter wore their massive buffalo coats and who carried long large 4-cell flashlights. These soon learned which of us were just workers and not someone out looking for mischief or trouble. There was the occasional homeless person. I was often approached by them because they knew I would be good for a quarter, enough to buy them some coffee and a doughnut at a Sal's House, basically the only places which were open 24 hours a day. I knew what it was like to be cold and hungry!

I also preferred the south side because this was where most of the store fronts with display windows were. My walk was often interspersed with looking at the window displays. Eaton's and The Bay were my favorite stores because they had elaborate displays. Kresge's, the Metropolitan, Woolworth's, and Dayton's were also interesting. I would also stop to admire the large posters highlighting current and coming movies. the Lyceum, the Capitol, the Dominion, and the Gaiety always had colorful and intriguing posters.

Near Maryland Street and on would be a few car dealerships where I could admire the new unaffordable cars (unaffordable for me) and some of the tempting used cars on the outside lot.

As well, if I got cold or felt hungry and I could afford a "nip", the word in Winnipeg for a Salisbury House hamburger, I would cross the street near United College, now the University of Winnipeg, and I would go to the Sal's House at Portage and Spence near the CBC building. There were always interesting characters hanging out here after midnight.

From there it was about another 10 blocks and I would be home in my 3rd floor rented suite which I shared with my parents who had recently located to Winnipeg from their small farm in Saskatchewan.

With apologies to Patsy Cline:

"I go out walkin' after midnight

Out in the moonlight"