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It’s Elementary My Dear.

A short article I read about corporal discipline in Chinese elementary school got me to thinking about my own childhood school years:

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Smiling faces? Not for long! See how that nun is smiling? She knows!

September 1957. It was now time for school. Grade one. I was a smart young lad back then for I skipped Kindergarten. What kind of name is that anyway, Kindergarten? Jimmy-mum and I would go together: walk to school, and keep each other company all the way and on the way. It was about a mile and a half to walk, normally taking a shortcut through a huge hydro-field. I can still remember that walk. Stay on the left side of the road, face traffic, look both ways, cut across the street, quickly, then walk through the tall long grass of the hydro field. That field’s tall soft early autumn grass seemed to undulate in the light breeze, like an ocean of late summer’s tall grass. Each long and tenuous swell appearing to a young fellow like me as an enormous mountain barrier or a sea swell that had to be climbed or sailed across. Down hill and dale we would go, through valley and trough, then up to the next crest, then to the next and to the next, finally portaging across some wild and raging river until alas, back to the reality of the school yard where I would be confined to for the next seven years.

Catholic grade school: grades 1 through 8. No middle school, no junior high or whatever they feel inclined to call these things these days. To us kids it made no difference.  And to an imaginative lad school was school. And it sucked. And the Catholic Schools really, really sucked because in addition to all of the scholarly stuff we also had to contend with the wrath of God disguised in long flowing black robes and habits. Sister this and sister that.  Father this and father that.   Adapt quickly and quietly and quickly and quietly we did for it soon became apparent that it was us against them. For that reason alone our time in the Catholic School system was the very best of times as well as the very worst of times.  At its worse? A residential school for white Anglo – Saxon boys and girls. At its best? It was a great deal of fun and a whole lot of laughs for it was us against them for the next seven years. Seven years, as I skipped a grade for being the smart ass that I was back in those days.  Then again the Catholic Separate School System had a mandate and a mission to spit out as many good catholic boys and girls on society as fast as was heavenly possible.

They had lay teachers there as well. Some were great, others not so much.  Ms McFayden, grade seven, a closet chain smoker.   Mr Bowner: a superb, artistically inclined grade six teacher. There was Ms Tupper, grade three; Ms Kellerer, grades four and five; Ms Raddigan, grade eight, Radiator in our vernacular. Sister Theresa, grade one. Grade two – I can’t remember.

Sweet innocent Sister Theresa. We all loved her. Beatific: possessing an angelic soft hewn face with saintly features. She was young and she was beautiful. And a nun at that! Thinking back, what a waste.  But at that time she made a lasting religious impression on our impressionable minds. In today’s world she would have been our elementary school “Ying.”  And with all things “Ying” there had to be a “Yang” and in this case our elementary school “Yang” turned out to be Sister Mary Bernice…”Yang.”  Burly, tough as nails, she wore polished black ankle height sea boots with that black habit of hers.   Her gait was that of a sailor who was not yet accustomed to the stability of dry land. She possessed a jaunt, more like a saunter, not unlike Charlie Chaplin, all the while twirling a baton or strap that we would become very familiar with soon enough.  She was so intimidating that even the parish priests took notice. Her face was non descriptive really as it was framed by that white veil of nunnery.  I think her hair was black, slightly graying at the temples. I know this because her temples seemed to bulge out whenever she was laying out the wrath of our heavenly father across the palms of our earthly hands.

Like her gait she yelled like a sailor: a real Chief Boatswains Mate or Buffer in the naval vernacular. Her wrath came down unexpectantly and unrepentantly with the sure fired will of an archangel, but no St Michaela here!  She had two main weapons in her arsenal to keep us all in line. Her hands, left or right, it didn’t matter, came across one’s face totally and entirely out of the heavenly blue like some religious and corporal stealth attack.  Just like that: whack, whack, and more whack, followed by the incessant burning of the cheeks and ringing in the ears. Not tinnitus mind you for that would come later but a toned deaf ringing with each whack of those unflappable calloused palms or the gnarly backs of her hands. With years of experience under her black habit she learned to cup her hands ever so slightly and in such a way that with each open palmed whacked imprint her fingers would somehow claw their way across one’s face in such a manner that they seemed to draw one’s cheek and face upward toward heaven, as if in a corporal raptured state of mind waiting for and begging for heavenly intervention.  To be fair to her she was an equal opportunity inquisitor. The girls got it too. And their faces? Wow. Pink and as pink as pure virginity could be but stained with the tracks of their tears. Such tears they were: welling up and falling down and across those pearly, pretty and innocent faces.

Us lads, we chuckled.

Song of the day:

Don’t become indoctrinated. Maintain your ability to think critically. Stay away from University.

SJ…………………………..Out

Barrel Jumping

From an earlier post: Getting ready for the Voie de Vezelay

Barrel Jumping:

“Barrel Jumping” used to be an accredited winter sport, both amateur and professional.  It was never a winter Olympic event but it should have been.  I remember watching it on the Wide World of Sport TV program: that late Saturday afternoon stalwart of sports, “the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat,” which I believe is no longer a fan favourite being replaced by the mundane and hyped Monday Night Football.  Barrel Jumping was a real man’s sport, sort of like winter’s version of the “High Jump and Long Jump” combined and all rolled into one event except that on completing the leap the competitor either landed squarely on his blades on the ice in triumphant jubilation or crash mercilessly, convulsively, into the barrels themselves. With hope upon hope, he tripped himself up after his leap into space falling on to his backside then sliding into the boards of the rink or snow bank.  Unlike the “High Jump” there were no padded landing zones to break the skaters fall just the hard cold ice zone to break ones legs, one’s knees, ankles or pride.  Concussions seemed to top the list as well.  Probably a good thing as the more one became concussed the braver one became in this sport.  It was like their badge of honour. It was not the Sport of Kings but rather the sport of Dentists, Orthodontists, Chiropractors and Idiots.

The premise being that, in spite of idiocy and insanity, it was all about jumping over plastic barrels on skates, but on ice. The more barrels that were cleared the more adventurous and dangerous it became. It was very popular in the Northern States, particularly New York State around the Lake Placid area; Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine plus the backwoods of Quebec and parts of northern Ontario, Manitoba and Saskatchewan Canada. It was a hugely popular and well followed event. We all had our own barrel jumping heroes.

The competitor, or idiot on skates, would circle the barrels like some sort of displaced matador insanely focused on the barrels themselves that were racked side by side on the ice.  Starting with one barrel the excitement and suspense of the fans grew exponentially as the number of barrels increased: two, three, five, eight, ten and on and on it went until there was only one man left standing, or sliding into the boards. The crowds would cheer as each participant cleared the barrels in flight and cheered even louder if one came crashing down into one of the barrels. The cacophony of oooos, aaaahs and groans were the real metric of approval.  Scoring was dependant upon the competitor’s misstep and choreographed mishap, which was the real essence that made this event so compelling from a spectator’s perspective.  With each subsequent jump the competitors would try and outdo one another for the admiration and adulation of the crowds. Some would twirl, some would spin and some would jump like a drunken figure skater before building up the speed over distance that was necessary to clear the barrels. 10, 20, sometimes 30 miles per hour they could muster, their leg muscles bulging with every stride, their arms flinging in a sideways motion as if giving flight like an airplane or like the birdbrains that they were. The jumper must leap about 6 or seven feet in the air with a forward projection if he has any hope of clearing the barrels.

The competitor must have agility, speed and guts and be intellectually challenged if he is to be successful in this sport. Some would just leap and fall without the grace or agility of a showman. Others would appear to be running in thin air. Their legs, arms and skates pumping like the madmen that they were while others had the audacity and fool’s courage to project themselves horizontally over the barrels once in the air, like a human cannonball or like superman in flight with their arms outstretched dead ahead only to come crashing down to earth headlong into the barrelled mass. These guys were a crowd favourite. In essence the sport of barrel jumping was never really about clearing the barrels but about the chaotic showmanship of the competitors and their relationship with the barrels themselves as they went flying in all directions.

Unfortunately Barrel Jumping never became an Olympic sport. Instead we have Rhythmic Gymnastics!

“It was too brutal of a sport” a commentator was heard to say. “No one ever made it as all the competitors seemed to fall on their backsides.

Yessss, exactly

 

Amazing, Those Priests!

Image result for funny pics of catholic high schools

Ah, school memories:

Classes at St Basil’s ended at 1500. At about 1455 every day, like clockwork, the Public Address system would come on. The Vice Principal, Father Rourque, would make an announcement in his usual matter of fact way. It would start:

“Attention all students. The following students have been kindheartedly awarded the detention of the day: so and so, so and so and so and so, and so on and on so”

Followed by:

“Would the following students be so kind as to grace us with their presence at the Vice Principal’s Office: so and so, and, so and so, and so and so, and on so and on so.”

Grace my ass, for this was code for major pain.

We never knew what the infractions were or the degree of which warranted a detention or a visit to the Vice Principal’s office. Initially we did, but after awhile, like Pavlov’s dogs, we became accustomed to this daily rant. Listening but not really listening unless the familiar tone of one’s name was announced. We just didn’t care. We sucked it up, whatever punishment it may be. These priests had a way about them and each of them reacted in their own unique way.

Father McMullen – Math class. Chewing gum? No problem. Spit it out onto his hand then watch and feel his hands rubbing said gum into our curly, or wavy locks. Brush or crew cuts presented their own unique problems when this type of discipline was meted out, but given this new age of Beatle-mania and longish, stylish hair, very few of us sported the short cropped hair design. Sports card bubble gum, Bazooka Joe’s, was the worst, extremely difficult to get out of one’s hair. Chicklets? Wrigleys? They were much milder. It must have been the sugar content that dictated the air and degree of difficulty in trying to get the gummy gum out. Invariably this normally equated to a trip to the barber with the causal effect of sporting the now defunct fashion faux pas of a crew cut or a brush cut. The John Glenn look. The very right stuff indeed.

Mr. Aslin – “Priest in Waiting.” Perhaps, but he was more like civilian laity doing the work of a Catholic apostolate. A pretend priest. An ecclesiastical groupie per se. His modus operendi was in the form and shape of a thin metal ruler, 18 inches long, very flexible in and bendable in its delivery of pain via an effective slap across the palms of one’s hands. Talking, not paying attention usually rendered a slap from this innocent looking yet nefarious piece of torturous machination. Even a smirk on ones face could warrant such a physical reprimand if Mr. Aslin thought, in his smallish mind, that it was a smirk of defiance.

“Hold out your hands” he would bark “Palms up,” then whack.

One day Mr. Aslin met his match in one tall, gangly looking student named Art O’Neill. This O’Neill boy was definitely making a name for himself?

Mr. Aslin walked down one of the aisles, pulled out the ruler and stood by Art’s desk. Standing there, patting his left hand with the ruler itself.

“Hold out your hands Mr. O’Neill,” Aslin barked “Palms up.”

Nothing.

“Did you hear me Mr. O’Neill? Get those hands out” He yelled.

Nothing

“I said, get those hands out…Now!” Aslin was screaming.

Nothing. Art would not look at Aslin but just sat there staring straight ahead with his arms crossed across his chest.

Suddenly, a whack cam down hard across Art’s wooden desk top.

“Now get those hands out” Aslin demanded.

We all flinched. Aslin’s face was beginning to turn red. He sensed, and we all sensed, that he really had no clue as to how to handle this token of disobedience. Fortunately for him, unfortunately for Art, the situation was resolved for him.

Art suddenly stood up, defiant, facing Mr. Aslin. In his black, Cuban healed “Beatle Boots” he was about half a head taller than Mr. Aslin. Then without fanfare, without notice, and without any indication of intent, Art stepped back, and then with all of the forward momentum that he could muster, he kicked his right leg up making direct contact with the pointed toes of his “Beatle Boots” with the balls of Mr. Aslin. Ouch! Emasculated, Mr. Aslin went down on all fours groaning, cursing and wreathing in pain, gasping for breath and gesticulating at someone, at no one, that he needed divine intervention. Art calmly stepped over Mr Aslin’s frame and walked out of the classroom. We were all in jubilant shock. We never saw Art again at St Basil’s Catholic private high school for boys.

Father Fitzpatrick – History and English. His weapon of choice was one of those two side blackboard erasers. One side was covered in a red, white and black coloured striped tightly packed bristle with the other side a thick and soft spongy sponge. The eraser measured about 10 inches in length, just the right length, weight and balance and in the right hands, oozed lethality in his classroom.

I do not know how Father Fitzpatrick accomplished his amazing feats with that eraser in his classroom. It must have taken years of practice or perhaps he spent years in the Australian outback mastering the ins and outs of throwing a boomerang with deadly accuracy. Maybe it was Hy-Lai. Whatever it was he was deadly accurate with that eraser and could wipe the smile or smirk off of any one of our faces at any point or distance in that classroom. Usually it came without warning. Talking to one of your mates, appearing indolent, daydreaming, falling asleep or just plain idleness on the part of one of the students was cause enough for Father Fitzpatrick to unleash this “Kraken” of classroom discipline. It would come at you unannounced, its flight, its trajectory well thought out and executed with skill. The impact was normally just above eye level at the forehead or scalp level. Never directly in the face mind you. End over end that eraser would fly imparting itself sponge side up against the target so as to not cause any real damage such as a bleeding or a broken nose. How he could accomplish that I don’t really know. It was amazing for when that eraser found its mark and hit unabashedly, sponge side up, a puff-like cloud of chalk dust would explode on impact. It was a sight to behold. The student’s surprise was wickedly funny with white pan cake-like dust all over his face, up into his nostrils, into his mouth, over his eyes, all over his hair and down the front face of his blue blazer. We didn’t dare laugh.

“Pay attention” was all that Father Fitzpatrick would proffer to the class in general. To increase the shock value of this unique form of class management, it could be many days, even weeks before Father Fitzpatrick would release his “Kraken” again. We never knew when it was coming or who the poor bastard would be at the receiving end. Amazing these priests.

Song of the day. Had this before but worth repeating.

Man, Those Carefree Days!

I once knew a guy, a very close friend of mine at the time, who ate 15 “Big Macs” at one sitting.  It occurred very late at night after an evening of drinking and debauchery.  It was a small bet to start with to see how far he could go as he loved “Big Macs” but the challenge progressed nonsensically as we kept egging him on. Great fun! He did it although a wee bit pail at the end of it all.

Those were carefree days, as all days are carefree when you are young. And those burgs only cost 49 cents each back then.  Not too sure if he ever touched another one after that though.  I do think that he is a vegan today.

I can still see in my mind’s feeble eye this same guy being dragged down a set of stairs by his shirt collar by a tall buxom blonde Norwegian gal who truly was an Amazon Olympian at 6 feet and some.  Very athletic and as my friend tells it later the next day – very ambidextrous, triple jointed.

This blatant kidnapping occurred at a Country and Western club that we called the “Hug and Slug”- a colloquial term for “The Army, Navy and Air Force Club, so called by all the WESTPAC Widows that frequented this abode.  An appropriate name I can tell you. WESTPAC Widows were those women married to sailors who were deployed from home in the Western Pacific operating areas for very long periods of time.  To normalize, these widows would frequent this Country and Western Bar every Friday and Saturday night for a bit of dancing fun and then some.  And we, being the young and restless lads that we were, naive thank God and wet behind the ears, were navy recruits who were alone from home for the very first time and were delighted to provide the required entertainment for we yearned for motherly comfort.  This was also a time when very long hair was the fashionable norm so we, with our newbie brushed and navy white-walled haircuts, were social outcasts as the saying goes especially at the bars, the discos and the dance halls of this parochial port town.  Yes we would tempt our fate from time to time and test our sense of belonging and manhood at these discotheques but after striking out early we would all head down to the ole “Hug and Slug” to test the waters. It never disappointed.

Country and Western clubs are extremely down to earth, value oriented, and patriotic old fashioned but all welcoming fun. We would end up having a great time there to the wee hours dancing with these widows to such memorable tunes such as “All My Exes Live in Texas.”[1] Or the equally memorable and nostalgic “Ten Tall Beers with a Shooter of Whiskey is all it Took.”  Great stuff!  A good time was had by all for these women could not have cared less about our appearance. As long as we had some hair on the top of our heads, was all that mattered. And my friend?  Battered and bruised by the pounding he took on those stairs and, helpless as he was, had a very big smile on his face for he knew his fate.  She, a determined and predatory look if I ever saw one and, as I recall, entirely attuned to her prey and purring ” You’re coming home with me sonny boy.”

“Oooooookay!  He whimpered. To us. “See ya!”

Good fun. Too bad with all the rot these days that people forget just how much fun there is in this world.

SJ…………………………..Out.

 

[1] George Strait