My new home was near an elementary school. Berthelet School was old even then. It was an imposing, two-story building, featuring a wide flight of stairs and two dark, heavy doors. I only entered through the front entrance once, when Mother took me there to register. On the east side of the school was an entrance for girls; the boys came on through the west door. Each schoolroom held a cloakroom for outdoor clothing, and sometimes, recalcitrant students. Desks, each with its inkwell, were bolted to the wooden floors in rows. The teacher’s desk was always at the front of the room, and blackboards lined the front and side walls. A bank of windows could be blocked off with long green blinds, pulled down with cords.
Physical Education was unheard of in those days, at least in our school. Twice a day classroom windows were thrown open regardless of the weather; we were instructed to stand with hands on hips and breathe deeply as we marched around the classroom. We were marched up one aisle and down another for ten minutes. Afterwards we were given a half-pint of bottled milk and a straw. Parents paid twenty-five cents a week for this; the Protestant School Board supplied milk for those unable to pay.
I recall little of the seven years I spent there as a student, but a few memories remain. A wispy Miss Reid taught us what little French she seemed to know. Mrs. Vipond, who taught music terrified me so much I could not refuse her invitation to join her after school-hours choir. I fell deeply in love with raven-haired Miss Evans, though I cannot remember the subjects she taught us. Mr. Bennett holds a special place in my memory. He was the kindly principal who refereed softball games after classes.
As I achieved the upper grades we received instruction in water-colour classes, usually of daisies, and woodworking. For some obscure reason it was called ‘sloid’ or ‘sloyd’. Nonetheless, we all looked forward to it, for we had to walk some distance to a more modern school that had a workshop. Our teacher was strict, and I earned from him a strapping for horsing around with a sharp chisel.
Recesses and lunch were taken during inclement weather in the dark, partitioned basement. On the boy’s side, friends were made, secrets and candies shared, bullies bullied, alliances made and loyalties betrayed, and frequent fist-fights cheered on. I recall Mr. Bennett providing us with some boxing lessons, probably with a view to minimizing the number of bruised and cut faces he sent home after school. It became a point of honour for we boys to use them to settle differences.
In fine weather we played ‘conkers’ in the fall. It required each boy to attach a horse-chestnut to a string and face his opponent; each trying to break the other’s. Glass marbles came out in the spring. We called them alleys, and through various games we trained hand and eye. Throwing a tennis ball against a slanted wall developed coordination of hands, eyes and limbs, if only to keep the often hard-won ball and treasure from being claimed by someone else.
Whatever those who were Venus did in their yard during recess we from Mars didn’t much care, for in our yard we had the castle – a mound of hardened dirt left over from some long-forgotten construction project. We would wait until any supervising teacher departed and then groups of boys would charge and counter-charge the rulers of the hill until recess was over.
I was not a scholar, and was almost happy to contract Scarlet Fever half-way through grade seven. Six weeks in Montreal’s Isolation Hospital ensured a repetition of that grade. And thus passed elementary schooling for me.
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