The Brussels Post, 1979-02-28, Page 17Sugar and spice
• By Bill Smiley
Teaching and editing
Someone who had always had a modest
home and a secondhand car, the required°
two or three children, a dowdy and modest
wife, and a simple, rather sedentary
profession that would enable him to live
and collect his pension until he was 90.
But most of all, someone who had a
week's holiday at Christmas, another in
March and two whole months off in the
summer.
I am forced to admit, as well, that I
rather looked forward to having a touch of
authority. I had none over my kids,
because I loved them too much. I had none
over my wife, because — well any of you
married men know.
True, I had been an officer in the RCAF,
which suggested authority. But fighter
pilots had no authority. An army lieutenant
could scream and curse at his men and
degrade them. And himself. If we tried
that with some ground-crew chap, he'd
merely give us the finger. We were merely
the curious young chaps who flew the
things. They were the people who made
the things fly.
Only once did I have a chance to be a
1 leader of men, and thus throw my weight
around. It was afteri'd been shot down and
captured. I wound up with about 40
Canadian soldiers. Shortly afterwards,
their only two officers, who cursed and
screamed and treated them like peasants,
escaped. I was the only officer left.
I was pretty keen to show that I was
officer material and leadership calibre. I
talked about morale, and trying ,to escape.
The only comment was made by a grizzled
sergeant, who said flatly, "Screw that!"
The others merely laughed.
So I found out that my authority
consisted of cutting loaves of black German
bread into equal portions of six, with a dull
knife, under the guillotine eyes of 38 of the
rude and licentious soldiery. And the only
reason I had the job was that they didn't
trust each other.
So much for authority. But I knew it would
be different as a school teacher. I would be
firrn,,but just, a wise and benevolent father
figure, but one who would brook no
challenge to his decisions.
Yes, a regular Mr. Chips, accepting
confidences, doling out gentle but pro-
found advice, having tea with my students,
my wife hovering in the background,
enjoying the way I twitted the youngsters.
What a pipe dream! I "went into"
education, as it is nefariously known, just
about the time of the big baby boom at the
end of the '50s. New schools were being
built, and looked like, a chain of new shoe
factories.
Any body of any sex, and I mean any,
that was warm and breathing and had
anything approaching a university degree,
was being dragged off the streets and '
stood up in front of 30 or 35 kids who were
just getting into drugs and permissiveness.
Every third student was a barrackroom
lawyer.
Hair became the thing for males. Jeans
so tight a touch would have blown them up,
and T-shirts with messages so explicit a
marine would have blushed, became the
thing for females. Language that would
curl a sailor's hair became the thing for
both. And not only among the students.
Teachers ranged from fitness freaks to
alcoholics anonymous, from pedants to
pederasts. They started appearing in long
hair and desert boots, in gasp-revealing
cleavages and mini skirts and sadistic high
boots and Afro wigs. Any day now I expect
to see a lady teacher, if that has not
become a mere euphemism, carrying a
leather quirt. (This is not a type of purse.)
But I tried. I did try. I walked through
the halls exuding false confidence, conser-
vatism, and daring, in my modest suit, my
white shirt, my dark tie, my black shoes,
and my dedicated expression.
It didn't work. Oh, a few students
respected me, especially when they could
get me off the track of the lesson and •
talking about real life. A few girls fell in
love with me for periods as long as six
weeks.,
But one can only hold his thumb in the
dyke for so long. No pun intended. They
overcome you by sheer numbers.
Today, when a teacher walks down the
hall, he no longer feels like Mr. Chips. He
feels more like a referee at a boxing match,
as he darts in, trying to break up a clinch in
which one of the participants is in danger
of being strangled. By a tongue.
One of my - students, Grade 9, wears
across the not-inconsiderable chest of her
T-shirt the legend, "No Browsing."
And perhaps that's why a dozen teachers
have died young, in their 30s and 40s, while
I've been at it, and three colleagues at time
of writing, are in the intensive care ward of
the hospital, with heart attacks. Not an old
person among the lot. Perhaps I'll join
them one of these days, and we could play
bridge, flat on our backs.
Or does anyone have a job for an old
editor who would trade 160 kids a day for a
60-hour week, with one week's holiday?
When. I leaped from the swamp of
editing a weekly newspaper into the
quagmire of teaching in a secondary
school, I didn't realize it was frying-pan to
fire.
Like most people, I had a stereotyped
idea of a school teacher. Someone who had
quit work while I still had two hours, plus
overtime or night work, to go. Someone
who was fairly bright, rather shabby, not
well paid but never really poor, looking
forward to a steady pension after a mere 35
years of work.
YOUNG'S
Variety
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A. C. Forrest fund growing
THE BRUSSELS .PQST: FEBRUARY 28, 1979 17
In response to tributes in
the form of money that have
been pouring in, the
Reverend A. C. Forrest Fund
has been set up. The Fund is
a memorial to the con-
' tributions made to Canada
and The United Church by
the late Dr. Forrest, out- I
spoken and often con-
troversial Editor-Publisher of g
the United Church Observer
for 23 years. A special' corn,
mittee has been appointed to
recommend the form of the
memorial, which will be
established by the Executive
of General Council, the
Church's highest legislative
body. It is expected to be in
the area of continuing
education, religious
journalism or biblical
studies; each of which was of
particular interest to Dr.
For. rest.
Members of the committee
are:.
br. Angus MacQueen i
turner Moderator and Chair-
man of the Observer Board of
Directors, Dr. Fred H. Joblin
of Mississauga, Professor
George Johnston of
Montreal, Dr. R.H. N.
Davidson of St. Andrews
Church, Toronto.
Dr. Forrest spent his last
sabbatical in intensive study
on biblical parables and was
completing his book on the
subje& at the time of his
death.
Anyone wishing to make
contributions to the
Reverend A.C. Forrest
Memorial Fund may send it
to:
The Observer
85 St. Clair Avenue East
Toronto, Ont.
M4T 1M8
MA AND PA? — No that's not what Devon (left) and Brandy
Sanderson call their snow men. They did however name them Brian and
Donna after their parents.
(Brussels Post Photo)
How True!
A man who went broke in business said:
"I' blame it all on advertising."
His friend replied: "What do you mean?
You never did any advertising."
"I know," the man answered,
"But my competitors did!"
ONLY A MINT CAN AFFORD
NOT TO ADVERTISE
ESTABLISHED
1872
Brussels Post
887-6641
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