Walking east along our street, I heard rumours of Omicron at Marchmont Elementary, a half-mile away, and, too, of another extended break; both, confirmed by boys off the bus, when I returned west for the mail. How unfathomably awful, the thought of more fun, frivolity, and friendship, forestalled.
In an instant, I hearkened back to the hilarity and hi-jinx of grades four, five, and six …
… meandering through new, and knee-deep, late-November snow; off to Gold’s Variety, an hour out of our way, all-in, for the wandering and the what-nots. We’d check to see if the hockey cards had come in, but, when they hadn’t, we’d settle on Mars bars for a dime, 15 cents for Hires Root Beer, best for a boisterous burp.
Grand were those days of Alphabets cereal with Saturday morning cartoons, and road hockey afternoons, interspersed with three-networks of wrestling.
St. Catharines junior hockey was always a highlight, though one night in particular especially stands out. The Oshawa Generals were in versus the Blackhawks, and when their Bill Lochead (“Lah – Hehd”) scores an otherwise routine goal, the PA guy, nasally, and lazily, announces, “Oshawa goal scored by number nine, Bill Blockhead,” instantly blasting warm Coke from our nostrils, and collapsing the lot of us into that conflagration of convulsive laughter, known only to boys of 10 how to perfect.
As wonderful as weekends were, as much fun was had at school, and, even, in school.
There was schoolyard football, configured in crazy, day-long games, commencing before the morning bell and continuing through both recesses, with some series of downs in between, after five minutes for Flintstones and a sandwich at noon. All-day mayhem and melee, that, on occasion, boiled over into an after-school fight.
Our games were governed by an odd set of rules with fair latitude and fluidity, that only one of the guys apparently knew, “That’s a safety! … Two points us! … You guys gotta punt!” with just enough conviction for his team to regularly win.
All the guys’ names had long-been distilled to one syllable sound-bytes, for, were one to holler, “Bartholomew I am open!” inevitably, when the pass arrived, one wasn’t. Conversely, “BART! … OPEN!” was a considerably higher scoring play.
Accordingly, at various stages and ages, we were a gaggled mix of: “Gate” and “Gofe,” “Fat” and “Fud,” “Whap,” “Crap,” and “Kat,” “Nick,” “Bean,” “Mont,” “Pit,” “Brin,” “Ed,” “Oink,” “Ep,” and “Eg.” “Nocko” was the sole, two-syllable sort. ( Hearing that Julie-Anne Hazlewood was filling in for the easily-abbreviated Wei Chen, on CBC’s Ontario Morning, brought this arcanity immediately to mind.)
There may have been some girls at Oakridge, I’m not really sure. I do recall some hop-scotching to silly citations; sillier still, when skipping rope, though that entrancing “click-thwack” of the rope on the asphalt is a sound I’ll not forget. These pony-tailed skirts pretended to ignore us, entirely unaware that we were totally oblivious.
Whenever the bell rang, we’d jam-in a couple more ‘plays’, race around to the doors, whip up the stairs, and sprint down the terrazzo-tiled hallways, sliding slickly on socked-feet right into our seats with panache and fine flair.
We’d all be red-faced and out of breath, and the only guy who could sweat, did. Our collars were half-torn from most of our shirts, while our grass-stained, corduroy pants were hiked up to our chins.
Opening ceremonies commenced religiously with the flat-out fun of an eraser ricocheting off some poor kid’s head reading the news. I recall Music as well, but those peculiar pitch-pipes for a class full of sopranos, perplexes still.
Recess, without a doubt, was our strong-suit, but, some in-school antics were surprisingly uproarious. To this aim, no circumstance held more promise than “the assembly,” surpassed only, perhaps, by “the supply teacher.” Then, Saints-be-praised, on one especially splendid day, by Jesus, we were blessed with both.
Thus, with frantic Miss Supply, herding us like cats for Christmas carols in the gym, the fearsome Mrs. Barber – of whom for certain, we were afraid – forewarned us firmly, that tomfoolery was forbidden. This topped-up the tension terrifically.
As if on cue, the last of our crew dropped too quickly into a cross-legged-sit, split his pants, and we had a fit. With the sensation of Mrs. Barber’s back-of-the-head eye burning a hole through our trembling torsos, we clamped our jaws shut, plugged our noses tightly, and, breathed through our ears, till that peril passed.
Further calm was had with Silent Night’s first verse, at least that was, till the hefty kid who’d been in Grade 4 for a couple years, bombastically declared his commitment to a third, with the most colossally, crowd-pleasing fart, that was of such titanic enormity, it caromed of the two-story-high walls, remarkably while still reverberating off the floor.
It was so astronomically spectacular that the bedlam such a sensational feat so clearly commanded, absolutely ensued. This, then, fueled a contagion of pandemonium that cascaded around the gym, poleaxing prolifically the festive proceedings! … phew.
We laid low for a few weeks, as the principal was seething, and Mrs. Barber bought a heftier, high-grade, leather strap. Additionally, the accountabilities as per some extracurriculars associated with that infamous fracas, weren’t as entangled as we’d like.
Moreover, a tinge of trepidation had crept into our carefree ways. Graduation was approaching, and with it, some uneasiness as per the move to a new school. Rumours were swirling as per irascible initiations, dealt-out by tough-guy delinquents with cigarettes and switchblades, even goatees, and girlfriends, … that, allegedly were women!
As fate would have it, one April afternoon, we had an ugly encounter with some of these unsavoury sorts. Miraculously, our guy, Melnyk, better battered their guy badly, and while their “You’re-dead-Melnyks,” suddenly held discernibly less malice, they did echo ominously through the summer nonetheless.
September, and Grade 7, then sailed in seemingly sooner.
Sure enough, all the girls wore bras, with some of them actually being needed. A few of the guys got roughed up, though nothing too serious. Sadly, however, our carefree frivolity somehow had faded, as class assignments separated some of us, a few guys moved on, while others simply moved away.
All of this, summed up so succinctly in the movie Stand By Me: “You never really have friends* like those you had when you were 12.”
* * *
A week or so later, when checking the mail at noon, I paused in the silence of the bright, sunlit day, for, the cacophony of camaraderie, and of comrades at chaos, that echoed over from Marchmont Elementary, … was quiet.
I thought what a shame, as I reached into the box. You see, every now and then, there’s a ‘Bill Blockhead’ in the mail.
*While the names here have been shortened, this is not to protect the innocent, for there are none. We were all complicit, and, enthusiastically so.
John Epstein is a former, 25-year Orillia business owner who left southern Ontario for the north years ago, and has never been back. He is now a freelance writer, whose column will appear monthly in OrilliaMatters. He can be reached at [email protected]
