Grade school

Grade School

 

Bricks, mortar and windows

 

Saint Jules looked like every grade school back in the '60s. It was a huge cookie-cutter brown brick building. All the classrooms had large windows, and every window had a smaller window underneath that when opened barely let in any air.

Take your seat

Our small desks survived generations of abuse. Each one had a hole at the top right-hand corner that once held ink wells.  The writing surface was also a lid hiding the contents inside. My desk contained coloured pencils, a yoyo, a baseball glove with a red, white and blue sponge ball and finally a brown lunch bag, on the days we didn't run home for lunch.  Inside the lunch bag was nothing too special: a PB and J sandwich wrapped in neatly folded wax paper and a red and green Macintosh apple. Sometimes we would have a treat: a few strawberry wafer cookies or ginger snaps. The sandwich I would devour minus the crust but the apple, I would shine up take two bites and toss. I never trusted apples. I had a bad worm experience once and it still haunted me. Luckily, it never went to my head. 

Unusual punishment

Sometimes, I would tuck in the palm of my ball glove the one thing a kid couldn't have in class: bazooka bubble gum. There was only one reason a kid chewed bazooka bubble gum apart from blowing bubbles: it came with a free comic. I had learned earlier that chewing gum in class would find you with that chewed-up gum stuck between your nose and the blackboard, glued to it until class was over or for whatever time the teacher thought you deserved. I had already found out that passing love notes to the girl ahead of me was a bad idea. I had to stand in front of the class holding bibles with my outstretched arms and palms. I wasn't going to chance it.

Classroom decor

All the classroom walls were painted light green and had a black and white cursive writing border running along the top. Above our desks, a row of wobbling ceiling fans dangled from a once white now cobwebbed ceiling. The fans hardly moved any of the stale air, it was more like an amusement park ride for black flies and yellow jackets. "Wee" Every class had a crucifix above the door and a religious statue on the windowsill, a reminder that God was watching and if he wasn't he had someone on inside to do the job.  

The slippery slope

My teacher was a tall man and looked like Bob Hope or at least his nose did. He liked to look down that nose at us kids. He had a big old maple desk, obviously he was compensating for his lack of authority. On top of the desk at each corner those Bibles waited for anyone who would challenge him. We were taught to fear God and I knew firsthand not to push it.

Scribble or doodle

It is grade five and like most of my classes, I am disengaged. I had found ways to hide. I sat at the back of the class hiding behind bigger kids, zoned out hoping I wouldn't get called to answer a question. Everyone sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher. I was listening to the sounds of birds outside the window and the sounds of passing cars below. I had time, imagination and I best of all a scribbler. Funny, they called our notebooks scribblers. Still, I would get in trouble when I scribbled in it. I guess there’s a difference between scribbling and doodling and I would find out a year later.

The cartoonist

I was getting to be a bit of an artist. I must have received my gift from My dad who could draw horses, the real thing and he was also pretty good at turning the Saturday news into a hat. My horse was a cartoon version. One day, at the Hi Ho, a girl who was much older than me, taught me how to draw a dog. It didn't take me long and I soon turned that dog into a cat. All I needed was a couple of pointy teeth and pointy ears. 

From animals to people

Eventually, I moved on to people. My brother would ask me to draw the members of KISS which I did to his enjoyment. I was glad he just wanted the faces. I wasn't great from the head down. The cartoon I loved to draw the most was an old man sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper. The old man resembled my old man complete with brush cut and stubble. On the table was a coffee cup.  The cup had wisps of steam rising above. I don’t know why I had to emphasize that the coffee was hot. In his mouth a cigarette dangled, and the smoke mingled with the steam. This was to set the stage and to hide the areas of the body I wasn't good at drawing yet. All I needed was a head and two hands or in this case, a head, three fingers on each hand and hidden thumbs.

Caught in the act

There was only one person who didn't like my cartoons.  Her name was Sister Kinga. One day, I had my scribbler open sideways to hide the evolving creation. The picture was a cartoon of a nun and not just any nun, the spitting image of Sister Kinga in cartoon form. It was as close as a grade school kid could get without taking a picture. Sister Kinga was our music teacher. Years earlier she taught percussions only it wasn't skins and sticks. It was two tubular pieces of wood called, claves. The first music lesson was about timing. I found out later that my timing was bad. 

A critics punishment

Now our music class was learning to play the recorder. My class was, I wasn't and didn't care to. I figured I'd just hide like I always did and scribble. She wouldn't even notice. Hey! I had the book. I guess she had an ear for music. She could hear one less recorder. She could hear one less kid blowing his brains out. I was caught with my head down with my recorder leaking drool on my lap. For some reason, she didn't appreciate my artwork. It didn’t matter that I didn’t appreciate continuously playing” Mary Had a Little Lamb" This was the day I learned that a pointer was not a baton: it was a weapon.  My tiny talented hands felt the sting of that pointer and the rath of an angry little old nun. I had learned my lesson. Did I kick the habit? Sort of. Later the cartoons became impressions. Not surprising some people didn't like them either but that's another story.