When "We" Were Very Young

 I wish I could remember more, but I can't. I blame it on trauma of varying degrees rather than my young age. At the time, I was nine years old. This becomes more relevant as the story goes on.

A couple of months into my fifth grade year, our teacher Mrs. Garrison disappeared.  Suddenly, she just wasn't there any longer. A few students were recruited and given the task of clearing out and boxing up her plants, books, and personal paraphernalia. We were told, she was very ill and wouldn't be returning that year. She didn't.

She died.  

Most of us were a bit young to comprehend the situation and the concept of death. Some of us were apprehensive and of course, as young children usually are, we were quite self absorbed. Who would be educating us now?

Out of nowhere, or somewhere, arrived an elegantly dressed man with an accent which I identified immediately. After all, my parents and many of their friends had the same speech patterns. Mr. Boehlke was our new teacher for the remainder of the year. Although I felt some kinship with him, he seemed disinterested when I announced that I too was born in Deutschland, and could point out where on a map if he wanted to see. 

He didn't.

My 5th grade class

When it came time for open house and for parents to meet the replacement, things went a bit differently. Mom and dad quickly discovered that Mr. Boehlke taught Saturday morning German school to second generation immigrants as well as some high school students who needed extra help with a credit. For whatever reason, my parents decided that it would be a good idea for me to join his Saturday class.

I suppose I was excited at first thinking I would somehow be more special by participating in another of Mr. Boehlke's classes. It all unraveled fairly quickly.

On the initial Saturday, dad took me to a school some distance away from our flat in the city. I was then to take a streetcar home with whatever change my parents had allotted me. As I walked into the classroom, I panicked. Everyone there was tall and old, teenager old. I was intimidated and wanted to go home. 

I survived class, by attempting to lay low in the back of the room. That was easy. I was young and short. I understood very little of the "high German", and soon came to realize I really didn't want to be there. 

Athletics was an important part of this curriculum and after what seemed like an endless two hour language class, we were expected to participate in an hour of gymnastics. Husband and wife, former German olympians would teach us we were told. This did little to assuage this 9 year old's terror at seeing equipment which was much taller than most adults. 

The final challenge was to get myself back home. I was somewhere west of where we lived and it was a simple streetcar ride to the Honest Ed's landmark where I needed to exit the vehicle, or so I thought. After sitting in the streetcar for what seemed like an inordinate length of time, I realized something was wrong. Nothing looked familiar. Dad had said, and I remembered his words exactly, "Get on the streetcar. Get off at Honest Ed's. Walk home."

I suppose nobody told me where to get on the streetcar and how to go in the correct direction. Either that, or I didn't listen. I remember being calm and yet terrified. I had no extra cash, I was alone in the city, in unfamiliar territory. Fortunately, I had grabbed a transfer as I entered the vehicle. It was offered to me and it was free. I left, crossed the street, got on another car, and relieved that the driver accepted the transfer, went in the opposite direction. As I passed the school where I had originated, things began to look familiar...relief. 

Someone recently asked on facebook, "What's something scary you did as a kid that isn't done nowadays." My answer? Riding the TTC all over the city.  I used to take transit everywhere, to Maple Leaf Gardens for events, to the CBC on Jarvis St. to meet dad at work, and more. 

Having done those things as a youngster, and having survived, taught me a few things. I believe I became more independent, I learned to adapt to change, and I became a pretty good problem solver. 

Despite cell phones and all manner of technology nowadays, who would feel safe letting a nine year old venture out in a city of millions? It's sad really. It was an education in and of itself...an important part of growing up most children are not, could not, and should not be afforded any longer. 

The world is a scary place. Or, perhaps it was a scary place back then as well, and because there was no high speed communication, internet, or instantaneous t.v. news reporting, we just didn't know any better.

 

What We're Taught and What We Teach

 I finally figured out my password so I'm back. The format of this blog space has changed. I hate the new appearance. I'm at an age where I hate almost anything new, and generally, I feel justified. The composing page is very white and I find it difficult to see. I might as well use paper so I can tell what I've written. The font keeps changing. Anyhow, as is obvious, I haven't been here for a long time. The pandemic has taken over my being, both physical, and mental, and I did not feel compelled to write anything on that particular subject. It's been  covered by many.

The media has bombarded us constantly with everything...facts,  fear, predictions, and horrible events happening to humanity. Our perceptions of the world have changed and not for the better. We have all had enough.

The following story was inspired by one of my recent outdoor hikes. I enjoy my quiet alone walking time when I can meditate, reflect, and remember. 

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''Pick that up right now and don't ever do that again!"

My mom was livid. She made me feel very tiny in my four foot tall, eight year old body. I had committed the ultimate faux pas, and I was shaking. How dare I?

What did I do that incurred her wrath you ask? I dropped a gum wrapper on the ground. Yes, it was a teeny tiny piece of Wrigley's foil, made even more compact because I first crumpled it in my youthful hand. I remember it as if it were yesterday. I recall the exact location, time of day, and what I was wearing. It's as though even now, I can see myself committing that heinous act.

I was scolded. "Put that in your pocket until you get home, or at least to a place where you can properly throw it out."

I was upset and embarrassed. I don't believe I have ever purposely littered since. By purposely, I'm not counting the occasional store receipt that brazenly escapes from a grocery bag on a gusty day.

Although I didn't always enjoy it when I was young, as an adult, I appreciate a lot of what my parents instilled in me. The subject of trash based on my experiences, has become a particular sore point. 

When I'm out going for a walk, I often think back on my upbringing and it makes me sad. There, littering the ground are pizza boxes, food wrappers, drink cans, toys, clothing, and more.***     

A rather large culprit these days seems to be pandemic masks. In the spirit of true confessions, I admit I have lost one. Since then, I have made certain it won't happen again by attaching them to a lanyard around my neck.

I was upset and yet somehow heartened to read this article about a wonderful woman in New Brunswick who is doing her best to help during these troubling times.

https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/new-brunswick/disposable-masks-litter-fredericton-1.5980976

I often think about my teaching days. Although I remained within the confines of the curriculum, I managed to deviate from time to time. If I had it to do again, I believe I would base my whole year around nature and environmental issues with an emphasis on litter. I'd add a few "adulting" skills like money management, and some fun but educational life skills...perhaps knitting, sewing, and the like.  

I could totally do this. Either that, or start my own Waldorf school.

 https://torontowaldorfschool.com/curriculum/environmental-initiatives/

My faith was restored recently, when I saw a man, late thirties I'm guessing, and his large furry Newfoundland dog, walking along a woodlot area. The man had a bag, gloves, a grabber, and was collecting trash. Impressed, I stopped and spoke to him and gave his dog a cookie. 

"I figured I might as well do this since I have to walk my dog anyhow, " he said. 

I thanked him for being a good citizen, moved on, and wondered about his upbringing. It also motivated me to think about doing the same thing in future.  After all, I have a grabber, some gloves, and lots of bags...just no non essential dog.

I think awareness starts with each individual. Perhaps someone will see me picking up trash and become inspired as well. Either that, or they'll wonder about the sad, weird old lady gathering the neighbourhood garbage. 

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***RANDOM DISCOVERIES

of course, the masks

food packaging and energy drink cans

                                                                                                                                                          

miscellaneous clothing, shoes, even underwear

blender anyone? 

toys of all sorts

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UPDATE - April 21, 2021

It's the day before Earth Day. I have been heartened to see pictures and articles of late about people cleaning up, picking up, and making future plans to do the same. Wouldn't it be nice though if this weren't necessary? If only people would think before they toss!

Our Greatest Fears

According to the "Book of Lists" an adult's greatest fear is public speaking and public performance. Seems odd that during all my years as a teacher, I loved talking to groups of little kids, however, as soon as I was required to do a presentation for the parents, I stressed out. I did what I needed to do, but nonetheless, I hated it. I avoided speaking to adult groups whenever possible and I still do.

As a small child I enjoyed singing. I confidently performed at a Sunday School Christmas presentation at age 4. Mom coached me with the words and despite her accent and difficulties with some English phrases, I learned the whole hymn. "Away in the main chair, no crib for a bed, the little Lord's cheeses...the kettle are lowing...and stay by my cradle, until morning is night." Well, at least that's how I understood it as a preschooler.

Later, I was described as "shy" so often, that I decided I must be. My public performance was only shared from beneath the kitchen table. Apparently, visitors flocked to our house just to hear me sing...either that or to have some of my mom's homemade German chocolate tortes and cheesecakes. Sometimes, it took me an hour of sitting beneath the table, before I was brave enough to start...a lull in the adult conversation, a deep breath and I was off to the races. I was the performing monkey in the family who had the option of "being seen and not heard" when we had company. I opted instead for being "heard and not seen".  At least, I was always confident that the tabletop afforded me protection from any items that might be hurled my way if the singing was substandard.

In third grade, I was at a new school in a big city. This was scary enough, since I was still labelled "shy". One day the teacher announced "Show and Tell" tomorrow. I watched in horror as many of my classmates brought prized possessions and bragged about their assorted toys. This was one of the few times I appreciated having a surname near the end of the alphabet.
 

"Where's your show and tell?" asked the teacher when my turn came.

"I forgot", I lied, knowing that this would surely give me an E on my report.

"Well, bring it tomorrow."

When I got home, I confessed this to mom who promptly gave me a china vase with a gold rim and a castle etched on the front of it. I stared at it in horror. She packed it in my bag and I took it to school. Not even the shame of a potential "E" could get me to display this artifact in front of a group of third graders.

In senior public school, I was faced with a drama class. "Stand and tell everyone about your summer vacation" was the first task assigned by a handsome young teacher. Fortunately, before he got to me there was a student who had just transferred from a U.S. school. He and the teacher became so engrossed in talking about politics that I was thankful to Richard Nixon and John Kennedy for at least the rest of the week. After that, I have a vague recollection of doing an embarassing display of how to fold a paper hat and a mediocre speech on "Stars" in that same class. Then my family moved again.

 

I had my first taste of success in high school. My speech writing became more imaginative and my confidence ebbed. "From Bach to the Beatles" was such a hit that I, was one of the students selected to present my speech in front of the entire school. I was nervous. It went well enough.

The list of successes and disasters goes on. I was buoyed by an effort in Teachers' College. I did a presentation on "Children as Artists". The hippy like, long haired, long robed instructor dramatically placed his hand across his forehead, tossed his head backwards and announced in a shrill tone, "Now that, ladies and gentlemen...(insert lengthy gasp and some escaping spittle here), that is a teacher!"

And so my public speaking evolved, doing what I had to do. I can't really think of anything else in my early life that traumatized me as much. I tried. I improved. I learned. I gained confidence. I still hate it.

So, what's your greatest fear?