Things we should not forget

I enjoy leafing through the many books I have dealing with film and theatre, which are, happily, filled with photographs, black, white and colored – (I’m stopping at those three, so please, no e-mails, pigeons carrying messages, or smoke signals giving me other, various shades available for the aforementioned) – the perusal of which brings back memories of years wrapped in the thrall of the cinema, and the magic of the theatre. Sometimes a photograph from a movie or a play, (love musicals, oh boy!), carries me instantly back to its first viewing, dusts off the cobwebs that have hidden it from my mind and I live again the impact of dimming auditorium lights, the expectant thrill as the stage curtains slowly recede into the wings and the screen or the stage appears before me, like  an empty canvas, soon to be painted upon by a multitude of talents. Talents who have given me the privilege, by the simple purchase of a ticket, to spend an hour or two as a spectator; and watch, as worlds I never knew are created before me.  But sometimes we see a photo that does not return us to the movie house or theatre, instead, pulls back the curtains of our own life, and with our ticket to view already purchased we settle back, the lone patron in our theatre of memory, and live again an episode from a long ago time,  that begs another viewing.
Apropos of which, yesterday I was flipping  through the pages of, “A Pictorial History of the Talkies,” (compiled and edited by a Daniel Bloom, who had done a similar service for the Silent Screen), and came across a still - probably staged for the press - of a movie which had a powerful impact on the world  of the cinema, and on the audiences who viewed it. The year was 1940, the film, “The Grapes of Wrath,” by John Steinbeck, and adapted for the screen by Nunnally Johnson. The film garnered innumerable Academy Awards and the book led to Steinbeck receiving the 1962 Nobel Prize for literature.  Steinbeck’s stirring drama, about a family displaced by the Great Depression,  is believed to be the most discussed novel  in the history of  American  literature.                                                                                          

“With dialogue and scenes that rank among the most moving and memorable ever filmed, it's a classic among classics--simply put, one of the finest films ever made.” --Jeff Shannon – Amazon film reviewer.

For me the photograph, that of the displaced family, was a travelogue into my own past. The reality more terrible than the film it depicted.
Being born in 1929 made me a bit young to have been writing in a diary or putting together a journal on my childhood at the time, but my Mother was never at a loss for stories of the terrible years known as “The Great Depression.” I believe, and I could well understand, that that ugly time was stamped indelibly on her memory. . . . . . .  
Arthur Rothstein, photographer, 1936. (Library of Congress)
Her recollection of the day on which the wheat fields, surrounding and encompassing our miserable, prairie shack of a home, shriveled and died, made my flesh crawl when I heard it. I was about fifteen years old, and will always remember the afternoon she passed the story on to me. I now pass it on here, that others may learn of things they may not have known before. . . . .
Mom told of how she had woken early, that fateful morning, from a restless and enervating sleep. Her superstitious Scots mind had filled her with a dread, a foreboding. Wandering through the tiny house, sweat moistening her worn cotton dress, she could not erase a fear that the coming day held some terrible event.The weather during the last week had been unseasonably hot and dry, worrisome, but such days had been known before. Each evening, my father - as did the other farmers nearby - stood on the farmhouse steps looking at the sky and sniffing into the still air, apprehensive and wondering. The golden wheat was almost ready for harvest, almost, but not quite – another ten days and a much anticipated bumper crop would be ready for mowing. A steady, comfortable heat from the sun was needed to finish the ripening of the wheat, but each day appeared to be hotter than the one before, not a steady heat, a steadily growing heat, rapidly sucking every drop of moisture from all living things within its horizon.

Great Depression
Farms in the west such as this one were devastated not only by erosion but also by droughts and plagues of insects (courtesy Saskatchewan Archives Board/Saskatchewan Wheat Pool Collection)

Then it happened; as my mother looked out at the endless fields from her kitchen window, the wheat began to waver and sag, as would a runner, having gone beyond his endurance. Horrified, she watched as the acres and acres of  golden, chest high grain, like ambushed soldiers set upon and slain, fell to the scorching heat. A moment before there had stood a forest of softly rustling wheat - now the horizon was eerily empty, and far away. The valiant crop had not been able to hold on till harvest time arrived. Its trusted friend, the sun, had turned against it. This hoped for  harvest, forecast to be the savior of the beleaguered prairie folk, now lay, shriveling to useless straw, upon the  burning soil,  beaten to the ground by the impossible heat from its great benefactor. The giver of life - had taken it away.
Tears flowed freely from my mother and myself, when she had finished. Each tale she told of those days was washed with tears. I don’t believe that anyone who lived through that time, when they recount their stories, to themselves or when they are begged to have them told  by their children, and grandchildren, can come from the telling dry eyed.
"Tractored Out", 1938. Dorthea Lange, photographer. (Library of Congress)     
The section of the Canadian Prairies where my father had chosen to farm was known as the worst section in Canada for farming, This was underplayed and openly denied by the Government of the time in an effort to induce more European investment in the country, and more immigrants to migrate into, and populate, the Prairies.  Saskatchewan, Alberta and British Columbia, suffered the worst of the Great Depression - the drought and the terrifying dust storms, that swept away the rich, over worked top soil of the great plains, had not only devastated their farms, it had taken away their future.

Dust Bowl

The prairie dry belt was unwisely opened for homesteading and was struck by successive droughts in the 1920s that contributed to hardships during the Depression (courtesy PAA).

During the 1930s, drought and economic depression forced prairie farmers to abandon their farms to find work in the cities. Pictured here, settlers leaving farms in the "dry belt" areas in southern Saskatchewan moving along No. 4 Highway north of Battleford. (National Archives of Canada, PA-044575)

The Great Depression, with its dust storms, drought, homelessness, eviction and brutal poverty, showed the worst and best in the millions who lived and survived it. Written in the pages of those years there is a clear message; so much of what occurred in that decade of wrath man brought upon himself. We can only trust a lesson was learned that will stay learned: how the human race, if it tries hard enough, and is thoughtless enough, can do so much damage to this wonderful home we call Earth, that a day will come, when  it will be no more than a misty memory, in the ageless mind of the Cosmos.

 

                                                                                

 

"How many of us have had a Christmas morning, the memory of which comes back each and every year? I have one of those, and when I think of my childhood it is the only Christmas I actually remember in detail. There were others, but to me this is 'the one.'
“I was 9 years old, it was Christmas 1938, the Depression was winding down and 'The War' was waiting in the wings. My father had finally, through the incredible kindness of a wonderful man, found a job. This man, whose family kept us from starvation, picked us up, brushed from us the dust of the prairies, and with unselfish kindness helped our family make a new start. ‘Our family’ was small compared to his: there were five of us; his numbered nine; later, would come number ten. That was a lot of mouths to feed, but still they managed to extend an unstinting generosity to the five of us. The name of our benefactor was Bill Collins, and he had, after years of trying, managed to get my father a job in a bakery, where he himself was a delivery van driver. Dad worked at the bread ovens, and though the wages were small, they were better than the nothing there was before. Still, what little my father made was only sufficient to pay the rent, and supply the necessities.
“This particular year, about two days before Christmas, my parents asked my brother, sister and me, to stay seated at the table after supper. Not really unusual, but there was a heaviness hanging over the meal that evening, and we had a sense that something was afoot. Mom and Dad sat quiet, just looking at each other, as we kids cleared the table. That done, we sat down to wait for what might come. After a moment Dad glanced over at Mom. She nodded a yes, and with an expression of gentle loving tenderness on her face, looked at each of us in turn, tears swelling in her eyes. As Dad began to speak they fell.
“What Dad said, was that there would be no Christmas at our house that year. There was no money whatsoever, for anything but food. Then Dad’s tears started, and he reached his arms around us as we scrambled to hold him and Mom. He apologized over and over to us, as if it were something he had done. Then arms were everywhere, as we reached out to each other, hugging and sobbing. My sister, brother and I, devastated far more by the tears our parents shed than by a Christmas without toys, said as one, as though we had rehearsed the scene before supper,'It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter.’ Then, my dear little sister said it right, ‘It doesn’t matter, because we have each other, and that’s enough! That’s all the Christmas we need!' Oh yeah! There was a lot of love in that house!
“Christmas morning, after checking through or socks, which we had hung over the bottom bed frame - just in case - my brother and I were surprised to find within each a tangerine, and some nuts snuggling down in the toes. Tiptoeing to my sisters room, we found her with one of her tiny arms pushing its way down into the sock she to had hopefully put up, searching for more treasures, not wanting to miss a single nut. After nibbling our goodies we made our way downstairs, to sit by the tree and wait for Mom and Dad to wake up -  so we could wish them a Merry Christmas. Dad did have a tree for us, he went into the woods, which were nearby in those days, and cut one down, and set it up in the living room. Of course, it’s not to hard to find things to use as decorations, so, we had a decorated tree to sit in front of. As we quietly slipped into the living room – so as not to wake Mom and Dad whose bedroom was right next to the living room - the three of us let out a whoop! so loud it must have wakened the whole neighborhood. We  stood and stared in eye popping wonder, hardly believing what we saw. There before us, spread all around the tree and spilling out across the living room floor was a world of gifts. Brightly wrapped packages were piled one on top of the other, those too large to wrap, sported huge bows and brilliant ribbons. The three of us just stood, dumbfounded before this mirage, and could only stare, 'it wasn’t possible,' written on each of our faces. But it was, it was right in front of us, a Christmas morning wonderland, in our own house!
“I realized that Mom and Dad were not asleep, they came into the living room so quickly, dressing gowns on and wide awake, that they had to have been waiting for us.
“Well, it was truly the Christmas of all Christmases that year. Dad had somehow managed to go into hock for the money to do what he did. I was told, years later, by Mom, that it took all of five years to pay back the money they borrowed to give us that incredible Christmas morning. Five years! My folks were sure something else. Imagine, a train set with everything for me, a brand new bike for my Bro, and for my sister a dolls house – made by Dad – filled with all the things every dollhouse and doll needs. I can’t recall what all the other gifts were,  but they had done themselves proud, had my parents. What a lesson their sacrifice taught me about parenting. There are times that doing the right thing is more important than anything else.
“Oh! and hey! It wasn’t just toys and sweets that made it memorable, that Christmas long past; there was turkey and all the trimmings on our festive table that night! A Christmas straight out of Dickens.!"

May Christmas bring joy to you,

and love to all. May the memories

of Christmases Past,  fill our hearts 

this festive season. And may the

spirit of love dwell in all of us!

Shopping with the Mrs. - or Ruffling Feathers

A pair of Seagulls have, for the past three years or so, taken to patrolling the lawn in front of our window. They must be a couple. Well, the way they chatter and squawk at nothing or each other, complain about this or that, is reminiscent; and if something is said or done that offends, the offended party moves away, in "high dudgeon," to stand in an apparent sulk, all the while glancing over its shoulder at the offender. Mrs. Seagull, (I assume it's Mrs.), appears to be constantly searching for things, or maybe it's some particular thing, although as far as I've been able to ascertain she has never found the elusive article. She is forever picking up sticks, usually fallen twigs. A small one she holds easily in her beak as she considers what use she could put it to - when nothing comes, she drops it. A large one she will drag around for a considerable time, cogitating over its possible uses -- only to cast it aside as well. When she has decided she can think of no use for twigs or branches today, she searches for other items: clumps of grassy sod; slippery pieces of sea weed; occasionally a small rock; or a fallen leaf, and once a feather, fallen from an eagle, which she seemed prepared to keep. How tightly she had held it as she strolled (could I say hand in hand?), with hubby, around the entire circumference of the lawn. I thought she'd finally found the treasure she had been seeking all summer, but no sooner had the thought come to me than she let it fall from her large yellow beak, leaving it to lie again, unwanted, upon the grass. I believe Mr. Seagull may have made some unkind remark that caused her to relinquish the feather. He often appears harsh, seeming to criticize everything she does. His anger seems to be connected to her incessant scavenging; each item she picks up, and then discards, is accompanied by him scolding her vociferously, with harsh screeches. Those times, when his anger gets the better of him, he resorts to a petulance that rivals the tantrums of a spoiled child.These tantrums follow a set pattern, never vary; you know what's about to happen to the letter.  Scrabbling quickly away from the Mrs., he goes for a running take-off and sails out over the sea, all the while raining squawking invective earthwards. Soon he begins to spiral downwards in ever decreasing circles. Tighter and tighter the circles become as he hurries towards the water, searching for his favorite ocean bound rock. Spotting it, he sets himself regally down.

From this vantage point he rants on, continuously screeching rude remarks at his wife. Finally worn out, having got whatever it was off his chest, he fluffs up his feathers, lifts himself into the air and moments later plunks himself down beside his mate, and together they continue their perambulation. She, used to his moods, continues to pick and drop, considering this and considering that, until, at last, deciding that today was not a good day for shopping, screeches some raucous remark at him and together, as one, they fly out across the rocky shore to settle on a wave -- and in all probability to now argue over where's the best place to have lunch, and what it will be.

Somethin’ to crow about

  “Imagine! You and a few of your pals decide to get together and have a real gab fest, and you’re havin’ a ball. You go over the latest gossip about road kill, and where’s the best place to get really good garbage, and did the guys at that new fish restaurant up town really have to put such tight lids on their collection pails? See, guys together, friends having a chat, and what do they call our fun get together? A Murder of Crows!
“A Murder of Crows? Cripes, we don’t murder, we clean up other folks murderin'. Okay, okay! Don’t get your dander up (or feathers, or whatever), I’m aware there are stories out there – lots of them actually, when you let your mind dwell on it – ‘bout crows killing;  But I ask ya, who don’t gotta eat? We all eat, and if you ask me . . . well, just take a look inside some of those, whatdya call them. . .oh, yeah, abattoirs, that’ll turn your stomach, if nothin’ will. And, what about chickens? If you wanna keep eatin’ them . . . wow . . . don’t go there man! Oops! I'd better change course here, before  I go upsettin' the kiddies.
“Look, if you’ve got the time, and like to get a bit of learning about us – you know, us, Crows and Ravens – set your self down and let me bend your ear.
 “By the way, you wouldn’t happen to have something tasty in your pockets, would ya? Anything. I’ve got a strong stomach so don’t hold back. Check around the linings . . . could be hiding some old peanuts or popcorn, you never know. Check harder man! Something  must be lurking? You found what? A potato chip? You found a potato chip! See,I told you, if you look hard enough you can find anything. Great. S’okay. You can stop lookin’, this’ll be fine for now; might feel a bit peckish later. Did you get that? Peckish! Slays me!
“Not a bad little chip, bit salty, but tasty! Okay, back to getting you on  the learning curve. Gonna surprise ya, too. Like surprises? Me too?
“Ha! I was just about to open my big black beak and let you in on a great bit of news and realized something . . . what I was about to let you in on you more than likely already know. Almost put my claw in my mouth . . . . I know, I know I’ve got a beak-- attractive, nest pa? (Parlay the French)? Anyway, if I wanna  call my beak, my mouth, I will!  Ditto, the claw. No, claw not mouth, claws  is  feet!  Stupid!"

“I resume. The following is not unknown to you and many others, but I shall continue, for I am on a mission to educate. Now, listen and learn anew. . .
“It’s true . . . it seems, that Crows and Ravens have been dressed, by nature, to perform a  role, a dark role to be sure. We are portrayed as symbolizers of evil and death. We’ve learned to live with it. It’s not all bad, really. Just take a gander at me - shiny, undertaker black, satin smooth coat (you gotta admit, it’s fetching), great claws on neat little feet (ahem!), and then, of course, there's the eyes! Boy, do they blaze, or do they blaze (check mine out . . . they’re somethin’, eh!). And, we are, if I may be so humble as to confess, full of intelligence, ingenuity and . . . and . . . cunning. (Alright, I said it)! And yes, it is also true--I cannot deny it--we are scavengers. But look on the bright side. We keep the streets clean. We get rid of nasty dead things. But humans forget we do so much good! We are treated with degrading disrespect, we poor, overdressed, lowly workers; relegated to doing dirty jobs for ungrateful, two legged creatures (present company excluded of course), who . . . who . . . look on in disgust! We weave in and out of traffic, risking our lives  to pick up bits and pieces of who knows what, so they don’t have to look at nasties. Ugh! Makes me shiver, their ingratitude. We are more than that, much more, we are . . . Oh! Oh! 'scuse me, but I must attend to something right away, can’t wait. See that! Sloppy over there has dropped her French fries. Oh! Dear, never a dull moment, always working. . . my, but they do look delicious. Caaaw! Must be off, see you around.  You know how it is--work, work, work. Never ends. Nice chattin' to ya. We’ll get into this again, another time. Okay?"

”

 “Hey! Ho! It’s me again! (They were – quite, quite delicious!) I was meaning to leave this with you, but forgot, I was so anxious not to leave that awful mess on the road. See, I really do have a good heart, honest. Read, enjoy, and as I say, we’ll chat.  Must fly! The bird is on the wing. Silly me, I mean the wing is on the bird!! Caaw for now!"

                                                                            

Just a fraction, or should I say a mere scintilla of the innumerable omens, diverse mythologies, folklore, and facts, on the place of crows and ravens in the history of various cultures. Check it out on the web, type in "Crows+omens," and prepare to have a wonderful time. You'll learn many amazing things.
Don't go away, you have to check this out. This fellow's talking about crows!

The American Poet, Carl Sandburg, is probably best know for two poems that most of us will remember from school, or, if asked to recall, will scratch our heads, and more than likely reply, "that rings a bell." They are so much a part of the American scene, that they dwell somewhere in the minds of everyone. Remember them? “Chicago, Hog butcher to the world,” and the unforgettable--

  FOG
The fog comes in on little cat feet.
It sits looking over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and moves on.

The following, “Four Preludes . . .” has a special meaning for me. I used it once in a dramatic reading I arranged, years ago, with a group of young actors. The third prelude contains a reference to crows. I wanted to include that section in this post, but felt it almost sacrilegious to take it out of context; therefore, you now have a chance to experience this noble work, complete.

  Four Preludes On Playthings of the Wind

       Carl Sandburg

    "The Past Is a Bucket of Ashes"

     1

     The woman named Tomorrow
     sits with a hairpin in her teeth
     and takes her time
     and does her hair the way she wants it
     and fastens at last the last braid and coil
     and puts the hairpin where it belongs
     and turns and drawls:  Well, what of it?
     My grandmother, Yesterday, is gone.
     What of it?  Let the dead be dead.

        2

     The doors were cedar
     and the panel strips of gold
     and the girls were golden girls
     and the panels read and the girls chanted:
         We are the greatest city,
         the greatest nation:
         nothing like us every was.
     The doors are twisted on broken hinges.
     Sheets of rain swish through on the wind
     where golden girls ran and the panels read:
         We are the greatest city,
         the greatest nation:
         nothing like us ever was.

        3

     It has happened before.
     Strong men put up a city and got
         a nation together,
     And paid singers to sing and women
         to warble:  We are the greatest city,
             the greatest nation,
             nothing like us ever was.

     And while the singers sang
     and the strong men listened
     and paid the singers well
     and felt good about it all,
         there were rats and lizards who listened
         ... and the only listeners left now
         ... are ... the rats .. and the lizards.

     And there are black crows
     crying, "Caw, caw,"
     bringing mud and sticks
     building a nest over the words carved
     on the doors where the panels were cedar
     and the strips on the panels were gold
     and the golden girls came singing:
         We are the greatest city,
         the greatest nation:
         nothing like us ever was.

     The only singers now are crows crying, "Caw, caw,"
     And the sheets of rain whine in the wind and doorways.
     And the only listeners now are ... the rats ... and the lizards.

         4

     The feet of the rats
     scribble on the doorsills;
     the hieroglyphs of the rat footprints
     chatter the pedigrees of the rats
     and babble of the blood
     and gabble of the breed
     of the grandfathers and the great-grandfathers
     of the rats.

     And the wind shifts
     and the dust on a doorsill shifts
     and even the writing of the rat footprints
     tells us nothing, nothing at all
     about the greatest city, the greatest nation
     where the strong men listened
     and the women warbled:  Nothing like us ever was.

The Principal

 If I were asked  to whom who I would assign the title 'The Most Frightening Person in my Childhood!' I have to admit that that question would need no time at all to answer, because first place would have to go to Mr. Waite, principal of the elementary school I attended from grades one through eight. The school itself was an imposing two story red brick structure. It had been built during the first decade of the 20^th century, in the neo-classic style prevalent at the time. Not to distant from my home, it was just a short walk, on a diagonal dirt path, across a large grassed playing field, and up a short, steep hill. Yet, it sometimes seemed a journey of miles through impossible terrain, each difficult step bringing me closer and closer to a prison for children, given over by their parents, into the hands of a malevolent ogre.

Memory has the principal a lurking evil, his eyes everywhere, tracking your every movement, every minute of the school day. Of course you knew that wasn't possible, yet everyone feared that with him it could be, teachers included. It seemed that wherever you went he was there: it was always him you bumped into as you skittered around a corner in the school yard; his, the cold eyes trained on you from some hidden doorway, watching and taking note as you hurried too quickly down the hallway; his sudden appearance, as you were about to head into a washroom, freezing your bladder. His signature was like stale cigarette smoke, a bad odor that lingered over everything.
He was known by all, teachers and students alike, as 'Old Creepy.' A sobriquet whispered only by the bravest, and then only behind his back, or at the bottom of the playground. Heaven help the student who couldn't keep his mouth shut and would foolishly relate some story about Old Creepy doing this, or Old Creepy saying that, and turn to find old 'speak of the devil' standing right behind him, spider ready, eyes as blazing and as terrifying as the entrance to Hell. He had this frightening knack of suddenly materializing next to a startled teacher as she chalked words or sums across the blackboard; never seeming to open doors, just appearing. He could fill a room with the same fear experienced by members of a congregation, when words vividly describing the torments of hell and damnation are blazed forth in some sulfurous sermon, delivered with joyous rapture, by a entranced Evangelical preacher.
With his long, thin, face, and  mouth as pinched as a Great Dane's anus, he gave the appearance of having spent his every breakfast sucking limes. The gray-green tinge to the white of his face emphasizing the truth of that belief. Also gray was his tweed jacket with it's leather patch elbows, which did little to hide the skeletal meagerness of his frame. I imagined his wardrobe holding no clothing of another color, just variations of gray. Pairs of undertaker gray trousers, dozens of gray shirts striped with dark charcoal-gray lines, and scores of gray, humdrum, leather elbowed jackets, the leather incongruously dark muddy brown. And lots of pairs of black shoes and storm cloud gray stockings which, on occasion, when he would perch himself like some carnivorous bird of prey on a stool in front of a class, showed the metal grips of his elastic garters – gray elastic garters.
What we all knew first hand - the grades one to seven fellows, seven being my year - was that his main pleasure in life was applying his beloved ( tornado gray) leather strap across the posteriors of young boys. He had honed his skills by relentlessly lambasting the tender backsides of as many as he could drag into his office - aka The Dungeon - in one day. Girls never faced that particular disciplinary action. For them it was lines; and not too many for the poor delicate things. A day never came to an end without at least one unfortunate boy called into his office, ordered to bend over the large desk that dominated the room and forced to hear his painful sentence proclaimed in a terrifying sepulchral bellow - surprising in such a bony body - so that anyone walking down the hall, playing in the grounds, or standing head cocked outside the door, could hear what degree of punishment was to be meted out to the unfortunate miscreant. A moment later, after the number of lashes to be suffered was announced, the hard brutal strokes of the thick leather strap, slapping against the material covering the victims delicate pink rear, would be heard; the stinging blows almost always followed by a painful cry or a shocked gasp and sharp intake of air. One, uh, two, uh, three, uh, four, uh, five. . . never less than five, almost always eight, more if Mr. Waite were excited enough. The remembered brightness blazing from his eyes more frightening than the actual strapping. There were times, when he really got into it, when we knew the bums would be redder, the welts thicker, the pain more severe and lasting.
It was like being in a fraternity to say you had been belted by Old Creepy. You belonged, you had brothers. At the back of the school, in a stairwell leading into the boy's basement washroom, a gathering of the previous tormented congregated regularly to hear the latest victim tell of his ordeal. Trading degrees of suffering with other unfortunates and working through ideas on how to circumvent the worst of the pain was the order of the day. Sucking in the glutes to tighten the muscles against the descending blows was always deemed the best that could be done. Stuffing your pants with newspaper was the worst. Old Creepy could tell when the first blow struck that something was hidden beneath the cloth, and Jesus help the poor miscreant. Down would come the pants, the last remnant of protection, the paper removed, and at least two brutal swipes across the bared buttocks would be delivered. Lustily, bordering on lecherously, could perfectly describe the motive behind the blows.
He only used this form of exorcism on the younger ones, he shied away from the grade eights, especially the guys who were extra big for their age. Everyone, especially himself, remembered the vicious attack on a teacher a couple of years earlier. The teacher, a Miss Blackwell, had dragged by the ear, a huge, dim witted, aggressive student into the cloakroom behind her desk, to give him a few licks of the strap, her standard punishment for any child who dared disrupt her class, and which this oaf managed to make a daily habit. This time, only a moment after they disappeared from view a horrendous scream burst through the expectant silence of the classroom. A scream that frightened the bjeezus out of everyone within hearing distance. The term 'blood curdling' was a phrase often  used by us kids, especially when a time like Halloween invited its use, but the phrase was now made incarnate by the sounds that tore from the cloakroom, and down the spine of every child, and anyone else within hearing distance. The overgrown birdbrain had pulled the strap out of the teachers hand, turned it against her, beat her senseless, and nearly kicked her to death with his steel-toed boots. Boots worn to impress impressionable children.
Students poured from their desks, running around like decapitated chickens, hysteria suffocating them as the room filled with the stink of fear. Hoping to escape the screams and thuds coming from the cloakroom, they began, in some collective survival decision, a mad rush to escape the classroom, only to wedge themselves in the room's doorway, creating a pile up of bodies as each child attempted to be the first one out. Fortunately two male teachers arrived, forcibly pushed the traumatized swarm back into the room, and rescued the brutalized teacher.
The unfortunate Miss Blackwell was laid up for months from the vicious attack. When she finally returned to her classroom, it was necessary for her, forced by her injuries, to sit with one leg propped up on a small stool. She never again walked without a limp, and Mr. Waite never again meted out woodshed punishment on the big kids.
My first, and only, face to face encounter with Old Creepy came the year a record snow fall fulfilled every child's wish. The school yard was feet deep in that wonderful element and snowmen, igloos and high walled forts popped up all over the playground. Tons of snow just waited to be turned into wonderful objects; battlements and such. A warning edict was delivered from the Headmaster's office and posted in all the classrooms and on corridor walls, cautioning that any child caught throwing snow balls near the school would be punished severely – girls excepted; they would be subjected to a double number of lines. The grade eight boys would be kept in after school, every day for two weeks, and given sums that had to be completed without error, before they would be allowed to leave for home. What would be done to the younger boys was left unsaid. We all knew.
Those of us who reveled in snowball fights, kept ourselves well away from the school building, As far away as possible, that is, but the playground itself was in very close proximity to the front of the main entrance. We tried. but, unfortunately the best laid plans of rambunctious boys are often sabotaged by zeal. Completely wrapped up in a snowball war we had devised, I threw the arresting word 'caution' to the winds whilst chasing one of my friends. Totally without regard as to the direction in which he was headed, I boldly tossed a solidly packed white cannonball at his retreating back. Oh! Boy! It sailed straight at him, a perfect shot! Perfect that is until, at the last moment, he turned, looked back, saw it coming, and ducked. I was gobsmacked, then horrified, as I watched the forbidden object fly uselessly past him to smack solidly into the cement foundation of the school - directly below the principals office. Blood drained from my face, and my lungs emptied, as though a fist had been driven into my gut. Pale with fear I lifted my eyes to the tell-all window above me, to pale even further when I saw a gray-white face, skewed into the cruelest smile I could ever have imagined, staring down at me. A long, thin finger moved into view, and beckoned me.
I sleep walked. I was going to the gallows. I could hardly place one foot in front of the other. Hauling myself up the school stairs I could feel the mesmerized stillness of the students standing around, watching. Frozen faces, a multitude of expressions, followed each lugubrious step. Eyes flicked back and forth, from my tragic figure, to the grinning face of the principal.
It must have looked as though I were truly going to my death. I almost believed I was. I wasn't a particularly brave kid, not yet old enough to have learned what bravery entailed. Though I might have been unable to stop tears in another situation, I held them back now. For as I climbed the stairs, past friends and classmates, an inborn sense that what was to come was some necessary rite of passage. Whatever it was, I felt, somehow, that a milestone had been reached in my life. The child, me, cautiously but boldly, was stepping into the shoes of the man he was to become. At that moment, this frightened, fledgling adult, made a decision: neither Old Creepy, nor my classmates, were going to see tears of fear in my eyes. I was no longer the person who had followed that beckoning finger, he vanished the moment I put my foot on the top stair. How those forbidden tears struggled with my new found strength, their flood held proudly back, but never far below the surface.
As I knocked at the office door, frightened of the pain I would have to endure, I was conscious of a growing stillness taking place inside of me. It seemed as though a safe place were being prepared, a place where I would find the courage to be strong. I prayed it would stay and keep me inviolate in the presence of this terrible man.
A voice, finger nails on a blackboard, called out for me to enter.
Glowering, he stood behind his desk, missing only his executioner's hood to complete the picture he made. His winter gray eyes, like magnets, pulled me to him. As I shuffled to the desk he slapped his hands together as though to begin a prayer, but instead confessed, with his tight assed voice, that he was 'pleased, very pleased', that it was me he had 'captured'. 
I was not a goody-goody, I simply didn't like confrontation. I had decided, even as a small child, that I would do my best not to get into trouble with anyone in authority, would always do my schoolwork, and get it done on time. I never realized until that moment that Old Creepy hated me. I was one of the few boys who had not suffered at his hands, therefore I had in some way outwitted him. And now I was his.
He asked if I had read the notices, notices that had been posted all over the school, and if I so why hadn't I heeded their warning? Everything so plainly stated, so exact, so clear not even an idiot could have misunderstood them. If I had read them why had I done exactly what had been strictly forbidden? I made no answer.
He blazed! Whatever fires of evil fueled him were intensified by my refusal to respond to his questioning. Scurrying around to the front off the desk he spun me around, grabbed both my arms, squeezed them across my stomach, wrapped his arms tightly around me and forcibly pushed me backwards onto the desk. He then pressed his mouth against my ear. I was terrified, it felt as though he were kissing me. Settling himself, he lay motionless along the length of me, the pressure of his body heavy on mine, His lips, brushed along the outer edge of my ear, his breath fetid as old wet socks, sickened me. I tried to pull away but his skinny arms gripped like a vice, the more I struggled the harder he squeezed. After what seemed forever, he whispered that what he was about to do would 'hurt him more than it would me'. I've never forgotten the sound in his voice as he said it, and how my gut tightened at his asinine remark.
Moving quickly, as though anticipating a pleasure that could not be delayed, he pulled me up, forced me forward over the desk, shoved my hands across my stomach and reached for his weapon of choice; the sinister gray strap, with which he had reddened and welted countless soft, young bottoms. Now it was my turn. Though appearing thin and weak his arms possessed the strength to deal blows of amazing force. Like one possessed he flailed me. At one point during the ordeal I wrenched my hands out and attempted to cover my stinging bum, to force a stop, and hold back the beating, but he brutally smacked the strap across the palms, drawing blood and, almost, my struggling tears. I counted each stinging stroke, determined not to cry out, desperate for him to stop. I was sure that when he reached ten he would. But he went past ten. Then eleven, and I began to struggle, for my life. I was now convinced he was planning to kill me. With each blow he struck his body had pushed into mine, my agonized squirming goading him on. Giggling, he pulled back and for a moment I believed him done, but he struck at me again, a twelfth, harder and more vicious than any of the others.
Still holding me down, his stance that of a vanquishing warrior, he continued to swish the strap back and forth through the air as though it were a whip. But the beating was done, the brutal lambasting ended. Yet it was obvious he had to force himself to end the torture, not because he wanted to, but because he had to. He had already gone too far, and he knew it, as did I.
My backside burned like the fires of hell, and my thighs stung as though a colony of hornets had used them for dive bombing practice. The worst pain came from cuts sustained when the edge of the strap missed its mark and landed cruel blows across the backs of my legs, leaving bloody welts. I was thirteen. Boys wore short pants in those days.
Suddenly grabbing my hair, Creepy yanked me up, and pushed his face into mine. The sudden sharp pain that screamed across my scalp blurred my vision for a moment and caused his face to appear, in its nearness, as though it were liquid: one moment a smiling mask of evil pleasure; next a painted face of pain, and always his eyes moved back and forth across my face, searching. For what? Then he was still.
Though no sound had been made by either of us, a silence so complete that even our breathing seemed to be stilled, moved in, and held the two of us. As if it were he who had summoned the silence, Old Creepy closed his eyes, pulled himself up, drew in a quick, sharp breath and looked down at me with such affection that I was filled with a terror that left me shaking. Then, gently, and oh so slowly, he turned me around, and knelt onto the floor behind me. For a moment there was no movement, nothing, then with such softness that for one strange moment I imagined a feather had brushed across my back, he lay his hands on my burning wounds. Impossible, his touch, so unreal in its delicateness, flowing liquid like, over my back.. And his fingers? Caressing drops of gentle rain dancing across my buttocks, and along my welted thighs. Then, with tiny pats, as though he were placing gentle kisses upon my wounds he touched each swollen cheek twelve times. Once for every stroke of the strap? The episode was so bizarre. The soft careful manner in which his ugly hands and crooked fingers touched my body frightened me almost as much as the vicious beating I had endured.
Finally, the moment I began to believe would never come arrived. Pulling me up onto my feet, he again sought in my face that which he could not find. Then, in a flash he was the Headmaster once again, meting out punishment to the transgressor. Spinning me around, he jabbed his fingers into my back and shoved me towards the door.
Opening it, I hobbled painfully into the hall and elbowed my way through the many students crowding outside Old Creepy's office. It was written clearly on their faces what they were thinking. Why - you could sense them wondering - though they had counted each blow, had there been only empty silence before the next one fell? Everyone had expected me to come out weeping, especially as they had all counted the impossible number. Yes, I had survived twelve brutal blows, but to no one would I show a single tear. They would come, oh they would come, but only in the comforting solace of my own room at home.
As I moved through a silent phalanx of students and staff that had congregated in the hall outside the office, I became aware of not having  heard the office door close. I turned, and glanced back. Old Creepy was still there, standing in the doorway, looking out at me, but, I could tell he was not seeing me. What he did see I will never know. But what I remember about his face at that moment were the tears. Yes, tears, I swear I saw them. I had shed none, so why had he? I watched them move slowly down his pallid, sunken cheeks, past lips no longer puckered. And there, another change. The sour-lime scrunch of his mouth had morphed into a flat lifeless line across the bottom of his face. The tragic smile of a heart broken clown - a knife slash, across a gray-white shroud.

                                               A schoolroom from past days
Story Copyright ©2010 by Gordon Wales. All Rights Reserved.