I remember the experience vividly – it was oddly surreal and must be exceedingly rare. There I was, sitting in front of my Grade 7 home room teacher at Bessborough School. Except it wasn’t 1971 and I wasn’t in class discussing my book report. It was 1995, I was 35 years old, accompanied by my wife, Melanie, and we were discussing our daughter’s progress to date in Grade 1! Mr. Dufton, whom I had revered as my teacher 24 years earlier at Bessborough, was teaching our daughter, Sarah’s Grade 1 computer class. Mr. Dufton!
If you had asked me back when I was 11 if I thought, as a father, I’d participate in a routine parent-teacher interview at Bessborough, two and a half decades later, I likely would have answered, “of course.” You see, even at that age, I knew I wanted to live here forever – such is the profound impact of the Leaside experience.
So, there we were, in Sarah’s Grade 1 classroom, the same classroom I had occupied during my Grade 3 year, chatting with Mr. Dufton. He said, “Call me George,” and I said “Sorry, I can’t do that” – he’ll always be Mr. Dufton to me. He claimed he remembered me. If that were true, it could only be because identical twins can sometimes be at least a little memorable.
Admittedly, I was distracted by the memories that came flooding back. While Mr. D. was praising Sarah’s computer navigation skills, I was noticing that the curtains hadn’t been replaced since I was a student there!
The year my brother and I spent in that room was actually quite memorable. It was a coveted spot as it was closest to the schoolyard. Every day, we were inevitably enjoying recess at least 30 seconds before any other kids made their way outside. I remember loving that.
Our teacher, I’ll call her Mrs. M., was a strict disciplinarian who ran a tight ship. I recall one day, one of the bigger boys was misbehaving. He didn’t just “cross the line,” he drove an 18-wheeler right through it at 100 kms an hour. Mrs. M. calmly strode down the aisle, stopped at his desk and whacked him on the forearm with a 12″ wooden ruler that instantly broke in half – the ruler, I mean, not his forearm. Inspired by the student protest movement sweeping the continent in 1968, our Grade 3 classmate calmly looked up at her and said: “That didn’t hurt.” The incident became Bessborough folklore for years.
Later in the term, Mrs. M sent my brother Terry to the principal’s office, for the first and only time during his student career, for some heinous transgression neither of us can remember 57 years later. (I should note here, for the record, that I was never once sent to the office – after all, I was the good twin.) While quaking in the huge chair in front of the principal’s huge desk, Terry watched Mr. K. open his desk drawer and take out the huge “strap,” commonly used back in the day. He looked at Terry and said: “Do you think I should use this?” In a genius application of reverse psychology, Terry sobbed: “Yes.” Well, Mr. K. was flummoxed and didn’t know what to do then. Finally, he gave Terry a break feeling he’d suffered enough mental trauma just imagining his fate and sent him back to class.
Well, we all survived Mrs. M.’s Grade 3 class but she remained famous in our household for years to come after admitting to my mother that she gave Terry and me the same grade every time because she couldn’t tell us apart. (That was the wrong thing to mention to our mother, but that’s a story for another column.)
Needless to say, I’m glad Melanie was with me during that 1995 parent-teacher interview as, while remembering so much from the past, I heard very little in the present. Even with all the hijinks and mishaps, or perhaps because of them, our eight-year run at Bessborough was utterly idyllic. And our two children would agree when it comes to their Bessborough experience too. Thanks for everything, Mr. Dufton. And Mrs. M. too!
