school dazed...

On a scale of one to ten, where ten meant "favourite thing ever" and one meant "bane of my existence", school consistently ranked a lowly one or two in my books. Sometimes it managed to slide right on down into negative numbers. Mine was a passionate aversion. So intense that, even now, decades after leaving the hallowed halls forever, I'm still haunted by the icy fingers of anxiety at this time of year.

Suddenly I'm five years old again, horrified by the fading summer, by the looming menace of the great unknown, by… The First Day of School. The situation required a firm stand. "No school for me," I told Mom and Dad. "I don't want to." It may have been more like foot stamping than firm standing.

My parents, bless them, tried gentle encouragement and even a bit of bribery. They said I'd make lots of new friends. ("Don't want new friends. I'm shy."). They hinted at wonderful new toys and games to play. ("I like my toys.") They promised I'd love my teacher. (I won't! She's mean!) They offered new shoes and a pretty new outfit. (Tempting, but… "I won't go and you can't make me!")

I can only imagine how exasperated they must have been when, after weeks of cajoling, they finally resorted to, "Enough! You have to go to school. It's the law." 

I consulted the neighbour kids, Linda and Billy. Older than me and wise in the ways of school and the law, they filled my head with whispered tales of truant officers and reform school – a dismal place with bars on the windows and stale bread with tepid water for dinner.

And so, on a fateful September Tuesday, I marched (not so) bravely up the street, wearing my crisp white blouse, swishy plaid skirt, and shiny new shoes. Mom pep-talked me all the way to school, holding tight to my hand in case I might bolt for home. I didn't want to cry, but by the time we reached the school yard, my face was wet with tears and each breath came in a tight sob. 

Life as I knew it was over.

Norway Public School, circa 1955 | Public Domain photo
courtesy Toronto Public Library Archives

The hallways at Norway Public School smelled of paste and paint, of ink and floor wax (and sometimes, I soon discovered, of wet wool, old shoes, and sweaty boys). My first-day strategy was to look forlorn and say absolutely nothing. Between that and the floods of tears I couldn't seem to control, I figured they'd soon realize I didn't belong at school and send me home forever. It didn't quite work out that way.

The teacher, whose name remains a blank spot in my memory, tactfully ignored my streaming tears and sniffles, distracting me with a brand new box of crayons and a big sheet of construction paper. I didn't want to like her. I tried really, really hard not to like her. But when she admired my first drawing, I had to admit that perhaps she wasn't so mean after all. And when she pinned my drawing to the wall beside her desk, I might even have thought she was nice. But I still didn't want to be at school.

Recreation of my vividly remembered first drawing.

Being painfully shy, not to mention being the girl who cried, invariably meant I was last to be chosen for games of Red Rover or baseball. This wasn't entirely a bad thing – Red Rover scared me and baseball was downright dangerous on the cinder-covered schoolyard. I was happiest when I could avoid being chosen at all.

One of the big grade two boys liked to follow us younger kids around, 'accidentally' bump into us, and then steal our recess snacks. I had the scabby knees and cinder scars to prove it. My eventual revenge, though unintentional, was sweet.

Back in those days, I had a great little dog named Cookie. Every morning I'd tuck a Spratt's Oval dog biscuit into my jacket pocket as a special after school treat for her. One day bully-boy caught me checking it out and ran across the playground to confront me. I shoved the little biscuit back into my pocket.

"What'cha got there?" He grabbed my arm and fished out the biscuit. "Hiding a cookie, eh?"

I almost spoke. Almost told him it wasn't a cookie…

"Mine now," he said, and popped it into his mouth, crunching it up as he strutted away. And then he stopped, doubled over, and vomited on his shoes. 

I guess that can happen when you're expecting sweet ginger but get charcoal and liver instead. The bully never bothered me again. But I still didn't want to be at school.

Eventually I managed to get my tears under control (mostly) and by grade one I even worked up a smile in time for the class photo. But I still didn't want to be at school.

I was one of those kids who managed to catch every bug that made the rounds. For me, the best parts of the school year were those quiet days at home where Mom would install me on the living room sofa with colouring books, ginger ale, and green Jell-O to help me feel better. I liked it so much that I always stayed sick for a few days longer than was strictly necessary. If there was no bug making the rounds at school, I'd invent one. I even devised a way to make the thermometer read a few degrees higher than the truth when pulled from beneath my tongue. (My method remains a secret to this day, lest I corrupt a new generation of slackers!) 

In later years, I spent those lovely sick days lost in library books – Swallows and Amazons, Anne of Green Gables, and more. Somehow, despite many absences, I managed not only to pass every grade but to do so with report cards full of As and Bs. Of course, the teacher comment line always included some variation of, "Cheryl needs to work on her social skills." Followed by, "She has a vivid imagination." Tsk. Of course I had a vivid imagination. I spent most of my happy time hanging out there!

Everything changed in grade seven. I was packed off to a new school and a new class for bright, alternative learners – an experimental class that might, it was hoped, bring me out of my shell. (It didn't seem to matter that I quite liked my shell.)

Surprise number one: my new teacher was a man! I was terrified of Mr. Gibson for the first five minutes and, like everyone else in the class, a little bit in love with him ever after. And the surprises just kept coming. 

Mr. Gibson took us to visit his mother who demonstrated weaving on a gigantic loom in her attic. He introduced us to musical theatre with a trip to see The Mikado and follow-up singalongs of Gilbert and Sullivan patter. He brought fresh oysters and raw turnip to class and lined us all up for taste tests. (I liked the turnip but managed to stay at the end of the line until … uh-oh, no more oysters, oh well.)

Mr. Gibson didn't believe in exams. When we took tests, text books were always left open around the room and we were free to look things up. We rarely did. He encouraged us to experiment with science, art, and literature; to work in teams and form new friendships. I met a kindred spirit in that class – Kate, who remains my best friend after all these years. Most important of all, Mr. Gibson taught us to think for ourselves and then to be brave enough to say what we thought. We would've done just about anything for him. 

Unfortunately, most of the parents – my own included – thought Mr. Gibson was doing everything wrong, turning their sweet, bidable children into outspoken little monsters. His great experiment lasted only one year, but I was a part of it. And for the first and only time in my life, I wanted to be at school. Mr. Gibson, if you're still out there… thanks for the very best of times.

So, reader, are you a school lover or loather? Let me know in the comments. (But if you think you know how I spoofed the thermometer, best keep it to yourself. We wouldn't want to start an epidemic.)

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Postscript: I've just discovered that a young friend of mine had his first day of Junior Kindergarten yesterday at – you guessed it – Norway Public School! Today's Norway is a very different place from the old school I knew. The creepily Gothic building is gone and so are the dreadful cinders in the yard. Also gone are the first-day jitters and tears. My young friend looked forward to school all summer and, judging by the photos shared by his proud parents, he couldn't be happier there. And you know, after writing it all down I'm feeling a little better about the whole school experience myself. (But I still don't want to be there.)

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stillpoint is the blog of Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington

   

dear little friend of mine...

A few weeks ago, while searching for something interesting to post for Throwback Thursday, I unearthed this smile-inducing photo of my Dad with our dog, Cookie. A rescue from the Toronto Humane Society, Cookie came home in a big cardboard box in the summer of 1957. I'd been quarantined at Grandma's house with a miserable case of mumps and the puppy was intended as a cheer-up present from Mom and Dad. It worked!

Cookie was a sturdy mixed breed, fluffy and white with brown ears and a feathery, perpetually wagging tail. She quickly became my best friend. In fact, much more than a friend, Cookie was the sister this only child had always wanted. Naming her Cookie was a no-brainer – our family name is Cooke – but the moniker suited her. Cookie was a real sweetie and, as far as I'm concerned, she will always be the Best Dog Ever.

This photo of us from September '57 is the only one I've been able to find of Cookie as a puppy. I'm sure there were lots more but since Dad was infamous for leaving his photo subjects completely or partially headless, this one with 'just a little off the top' might be the best of the lot anyway. (Sorry, Dad, but you know it's true.) Cookie was mid growth spurt when this picture was taken. She had doubled in size since the day her tiny puppy-self emerged from that box in Grandma's kitchen.

One afternoon, when she was still just a wee thing, we were playing with a ball in the backyard. At the time, the fence between our neighbour's yard and ours was a rusty metal grid of 4x4 inch squares. When next door's spaniel ran into their yard, Cookie was so excited to see another dog, she raced to the fence and stuck her little head right through one of the openings. Doggy kisses were exchanged, tails were wagged, and the older, wiser neighbour dog wandered off to do her business. That's when Cookie realized she was well and truly stuck. Her head and ears fit neatly going in but, once through, those pretty ears of hers perked up and prevented retreat. I'll never forget her terrified howls – hard to believe such a tiny pup could make such a big noise! Dad and the neighbour eventually had to take a hacksaw to the fence to release her. Mom was apoplectic. I wish I could say Cookie learned her lesson that day but, well, let's just say it wasn't long before the old fence was replaced with a new, puppy safe model.

Cookie's misadventures continued inside the house, too. Mom's prized Singer sewing machine soon had permanent gnaw marks on all four legs, as did my piano. Even the heirloom sideboard in the dining room wasn't spared. And speaking of gnawing on wood…

Our sofa sat in front of the living room window. Whenever we were out, Cookie would climb up onto its back where she could sit comfortably and watch for her people to return. Mom usually remembered to leave the venetian blinds pulled halfway up so Cookie's view would be unobstructed. One day, probably running late for work, Mom left the blinds down. The slats were in the open position, so a curious dog could see through. But a teething puppy, presented with lovely, thick wooden slats, did what any teething puppy would do in the circumstances: she chewed. She watched and she waited and she chewed. And when the first delicious slat was gnawed all the way through, she started on the second. Etc., etc., etc. Baaaad puppy! I wish I could say Cookie learned her lesson that day but, well, let's just say it wasn't long before the venetian blinds were replaced with new, puppy approved curtains.

Years later, a fully-grown Cookie was once again implicated in a domestic disaster: the Terrible Coffee Table Incident. She and I were home alone one afternoon, having convinced Mom and Dad that we were perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves while they went grocery shopping. We read for a while, played ball in the yard, shared a glass of milk, and then went to the living room to watch TV. 'Somebody' decided to sit on the coffee table. It was all good fun until the glass top made a loud cracking noise and shattered in a spectacular starburst. Luckily, 'somebody' jumped off in time and wasn't injured by the shards of broken glass.

I looked at Cookie. Cookie looked at me. There may have been tears.

I did all the talking when Mom and Dad got home. "It wasn't Cookie's fault," I said, trying hard not to cry. "We were playing and she jumped up on the table. She didn't mean to. It was an accident!"

Cookie stayed by my side the whole time, looking hangdog sorry and thoroughly ashamed. We were both sent to our room. The coffee table top was eventually replaced – at considerable expense (being a custom cut oval piece of glass in a mahogany frame) – and the incident wasn't mentioned again until, finally, I couldn't stand the guilt and confessed the truth to my parents.

I was the one who'd thought it might be fun to sit on the table. Cookie was innocent. It was my fault. All mine! Mom and Dad listened and nodded. I'd been expecting an angry reaction and suitable punishment, but all they said was, "We're glad you finally told us." They'd known who the culprit was all along. And they'd understood just how badly I'd feel after making poor Cookie take the blame. My angst was far worse than any punishment they could have doled out. I was the worst sister ever. And the Best Dog Ever loved me anyway.

Aside from her family, Cookie had three great joys in her life: rides in the car, cows, and ice cream cones.

The Nash Rambler

Like most dogs, she loved going for drives with her people – all that lovely wind ruffling her ears and so many strange smells in the air! On summer Sundays we'd often swing by the house after church, pick up Cookie, and head out in Dad's metallic green Nash Rambler for an afternoon drive in the country. Cookie would begin the trip full of excitement, eager to see every sight and sniff every single scent on every single breeze. But eventually the rumble of wheels and hum of the engine would lull her to sleep on the back seat.

In those days, there were still lots of dairy farms in the countryside around Toronto and Cookie was positively fascinated by cows. We always knew when to expect cows in the next field because Cookie would twitch awake and head for the window, ears perked and tongue lolling in a happy grin. On the rare occasion when her cow early-warning system didn't work, all I had to do was whisper a quiet, "moo," and she'd spring to attention, nose at the ready. She never knew the thrill of a face-to-face encounter with a cow in its field – Mom was afraid the dog would get herself trampled, cause a stampede, or (more likely) enjoy a good roll in the cow pats. But Cookie didn't mind. She relished every molecule of cow essence her nose ever encountered. Mom was probably right about the patty rolling thing.

Cows in their field. Photo by Bernie Janssen

Another favourite Sunday destination was the soft-serve ice cream stand on Kingston Road in Scarborough. Dad would order three medium cones for the humans and a baby-sized cone for Cookie. We'd sit at a shaded picnic table to enjoy our treats and Cookie usually drew a crowd of onlookers. Everyone loved watching her eat her cone. She'd lick politely until the twist of ice cream was gone. Then, with Mom holding the cone, pup would nibble dainty circles around the wafer, revealing more of the good stuff deep inside the cone. Lick and nibble, lick and nibble, all the way to the bottom. Then she'd chomp the final morsel of cone, give her chops a clean-up swipe with her tongue, and settle onto her haunches to stare hopefully at anyone not clever enough to have finished before she did. Thanks to those dewy brown eyes of hers, Cookie could usually score a second or third 'last morsel' – sweets for the sweet.

Cookie Cooke - 1957 to 1968

Sweet Cookie was my sister, my friend, and my faithful companion for nearly eleven years. She left us far too soon but she'd lived a good life, her dog days filled with love and smiles and tail-wagging happy times. I've loved other dogs since, but there will never be another like Cookie, my one and only Best Dog Ever.

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Wondering where you've heard that before? The title of this post is a quote from Verse For A Certain Dog, a poem by Dorothy Parker:

Such glorious faith as fills your limpid eyes,
Dear little friend of mine, I never knew.
All-innocent are you, and yet all-wise.
(For Heaven's sake, stop worrying that shoe!)

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stillpoint is the blog of Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington

sneaky peekers

Temptation. That's the trouble with this time of year. Too many temptations. And it's not just the chocolate and shortbread and all the other delectable holiday goodies on offer. No. I'm talking about surprises. All those hidden gifts, lurking in closets or squirrelled away in somebody's sock drawer. If you think about it, presents are not very good at keeping themselves secret. You can almost hear them whispering as they wait for the Big Day. "Look at me! Look at me!"

Of course, now that I'm a proper grown-up, I use my proper grown-up willpower to avoid closets, sock drawers, and other hidey-holes in the weeks leading up to Christmas. Even so, I'm always relieved when the last gift is bound up in shiny paper, tied with bright ribbon, and nestled safely under the tree. It's so much easier, then, to resist the temptation to peek. Okay, I might try to catch a glimpse of a hand-written tag, or maybe move a few packages around. You know, just to make room for more, not to shake or sniff or weigh a box with my name on it or anything. Ah-hem. Certainly not! It's all about the surprise, right? But…

Once upon a very long time ago, "willpower" was just a word grown-ups used when what they really meant was, "stop having all that fun!"

It was December, 1959, two weeks before Christmas. I was nine and a half years old. Mom was out for the afternoon, Dad was busy in his basement workshop, and I was hearing gift-whispers all over the house. With Cookie the dog as my trusty lookout, I tiptoed from room to room. Like a young Nancy Drew with her Togo, we were hot on the trail of a Christmas mystery. First, we checked the hall closet, rummaging through a box of scarves and mittens, behind the winter coats and under the boot rack – nothing. Upstairs, we rooted through the linen closet, opened Mom's lingerie drawer, and peered under beds – still nothing. My gift had to be somewhere in the house, I could definitely hear it whispering. In fact, by then, I was pretty sure I could hear it singing and giggling, too. "Tee-hee-hee and ho-ho-ho, you won't find me, no matter where you go." Cookie's tail seemed to keep time with a jolly thump-thump-thump on the floor. Whose side was she on, anyway?

Back in the kitchen, I pondered the situation while staring out the window at our snow-covered backyard. Birds fluttered and squabbled at the feeder. A cold wind rattled bare branches against the frosted windowpane. Downstairs, Dad whistled as he swept his workshop floor. Beside me, Cookie yawned and huffed, turning lazy circles before settling onto her mat for a nap. And the whispering gift had grown so quiet I could barely hear it any more. Ah-ha! What do you do when you're hiding and the seeker comes close? Hold your breath. Stay quiet. Don't whisper. I turned to study the kitchen. Where would I hide? Not in the cupboards or cutlery drawers – too much traffic – but what about the junk drawer?

Dry wood squealed a warning as I pulled it open. I froze. Cookie snored. Dad whistled. I held my breath and eased the drawer wide. There, tucked into a corner and poorly camouflaged by a jumble of elastic bands, playing cards, envelopes and postage stamps, was a neatly folded piece of crisp, white paper. The whispering stopped. I reached for the paper, carefully unfolded it, and read. This was it! Not the gift itself, but a receipt dated three days before, for "one transistor radio, pink."

Dad's footsteps sounded on the basement stairs. Cookie scrambled to her feet and ran to meet him at the kitchen door. I must have re-folded the paper and closed the drawer but I don't remember doing so. I managed to forget about the whispers and my afternoon of sleuthing, too. Until, gathered around our tree on Christmas morning, my parents put that perfect little gift in my hands. I looked up at their happy faces, so eager to see my surprise and delight, and all I could think of was "one transistor radio, pink."

Smile, I told myself. Act surprised. Don't let them know. I pulled on the ribbon, peeled back the paper, opened the box… and burst into tears.

I'd like to think that Mom and Dad never suspected I'd peeked, that they believed my tears were tears of happiness, that I hadn't disappointed them. But I have a feeling they both knew exactly why I was crying. I loved that pink transistor radio and made sure they knew it. But my sneaky peeking had, in some small way, spoiled the celebration – not only for me, but for the people who loved me best.

So, take it from me. No matter how many gift whispers you might think you hear this holiday season, don't become a sneaky peeker. Get yourself some proper grown-up willpower and savour the surprise.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

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stillpoint is the blog of Canadian author Cheryl Cooke Harrington