Welcome to the Atomic Age!

School was a ritual endured from September to June with the promise of freedom in July and August. That doesn’t mean that I didn’t do well in school, actually the opposite with very little effort, much to the chagrin of my much more studious sisters. But school definitely cut into my time beachcombing, bullheading or tinkering in the basement or backyard.

Our country school, Maple Elementary, opened just prior to my Grade One year, all fresh paint and unstained carpets. By the time I left after Grade 7 the yard was filled with portable classrooms and the school itself was busting at the seams.

If ever a 6 year old had a crush, it was on Mrs. Kiviniemi, my Grade One teacher. To this day I swear she floated about the classroom a good 6 inches off the ground, always with a helpful suggestion or kind word. The grade flew by, albeit with a 6 week interlude in the middle where I was homebound with bronchitis. Thus it was with rose tinted glasses that I hopped off the bus for the first day of Grade Two.

In twos we lined up in the big covered play area at the side of the school, each class filing into the school in order like pint sized soldiers, Grade Sevens first, then Six, then Five and so on. As I waited for my turn to enter I spied a tall severe looking woman at the head of the line, impatiently looking at her watch with a not quite smile not quite scowl look on her face.

My classroom was at the far end of the school, up a half set of stairs and along the hall to the final door on the right. I knew the route well from my Grade One year. As I entered the classroom I could see that all the brightly coloured artwork from Grade One had been removed, replaced with large white posterboards with the letters of the alphabet on them in stern black lettering. Little remained of the cheery Grade One classroom, with the desks aligned in poker straight rows facing towards the front. Each desk had a name tag on it, from the A’s at the front near the windows and Z’s (or reasonably latter letters) at the rear near the door. My desk was literally in the centre of the classroom with very little route of escape. And escape was something that was to cross my mind many times that year!

“Good morning class!” the teacher announced after we had taken our seats, “My name is Mrs. Atkinson, welcome to Grade Two!”

She paused, looking hard up and down the rows, “Take out your Arithmetic books and we will begin!”

And with that order began The Atomic Age, or more correctly the Age of Mrs. ‘Atom Bomb’ Atkinson, a teacher who made stern seem like joviality, who brooked no tomfoolery, laziness or lack of attention to the finer details of an education. Had she been born 100 years earlier she would have been the archetype of some Dickens novel or someone Tom Sawyer would have run for the hills from!

Atom Bomb was not only stern with just a touch of meanness, she had a pet dislike above all other dislikes – left handed people. Perhaps it was because lefties tied their shoes a different way or because they tended to smudge their handwriting; but it was a burr under her saddle to find a lefty in her class at any time. Sadly, I am left handed.

And so it began, the War of the Ruler!

Atom Bomb had a habit of walking about the classroom pointing here and there with a yardstick, sometimes stabbing it ahead like a sabre or waving it like a magic wand. Students became very aware of that ruler, sometimes ducking down on their desk as it swooped overhead. But it also had another purpose, much more sinister.

In Writing class I would naturally pick up my pencil in my left hand and try as hard as I could to form the correct printing required of the class. But no sooner had I picked up my pencil but the yardstick would appear out of eyesight to slam down across the back of my knuckles with a hollow crack! At first the pain would bring tears to my eyes but I refused to cry in front of my classmates, retrieving my pencil from the floor and trying to write with my right hand. Atom Bomb would stride away with a half smile on her face.

This carried on for several weeks, and I came to hate Writing class. My printing was illegible and the source of much derision from Atom Bomb. And my hand had started to take on a deep purple complexion all of its own.

This latter part was the hardest of all to hide. Every night at dinner I sat beside my Dad, eating with my right hand and hiding my left under the table on my lap. My Dad would raise one eyebrow but with six kids and my Mother at the table engaging in at least 27 conversations he would let it pass. And so it went for some time.

Now you need to realize that not only am I left handed but my middle brother AND my Dad are also left handed. In fact of all of us only my eldest brother was purely right handed. The rest were various degrees of ambidextrous.

But the charade could not last. One Monday evening after a rather vigorous yardstick whacking I happened to bonk my left hand on the corner of the table (I am a bit of klutz by the way!) and winced. My Dad raised one eyebrow, “What’s that?” he asked, pointing at my left hand with his knife.

“Whats what?” I asked back.

“That!” he replied, pointing again with his knife. “What did you do to yourself?”

“Nothing.” I replied, looking down quickly to hide the grimace from my throbbing hand.

“That’s NOT nothing! What did you do?”

“It was Atom Bomb!” Dode blurted out, “She did it!”

“Atom Bomb?” Dad looked quizzically at me with narrowing eyes. “Who is Atom Bomb?”

“His teacher!” Dode continued as I tried to kick her under the table.

“His teacher?” Dad’s eyes narrowed even further and his eyebrows almost met in the middle. “Why did his teacher do that?” He was looking directly at Dode now.

“Because he is left handed!” Dode shot back, “She whacks his hand when he picks up the pencil in his left hand!”

“WHAT??” My Dad was half to his feet now and I could see his knuckles starting to clench. He looked at me directly, “Does she hit you when you pick up your pencil in your left hand?”

I nodded, head half down to hide the tears of shame welling in my eyes. “I am trying Dad, but my right hand doesn’t work well at writing.” I mumbled.

My Dad just stood there in silence for a long moment, then turned and went out on the front porch for a smoke.

The next morning my Dad held me back from the bus. “I’ll drive you to school” he said quietly. This was indeed rare since my Dad usually left for work long before we trundled out to the bus stop. At the school my Dad marched me through the front doors and into the office.

“Sit here.” he said, pointing to one of the benches at the front of the office.

The secretary looked up from her pile of attendance reports as my Dad approached.

“I would like to speak with the Principal” Dad said shortly, “Now!”

Mouse-like the secretary scurried into the Principal’s office then turned and beckoned my Dad to come in.

I am not sure what transpired during that conversation, whether my Dad offered to take the yardstick to Atom Bomb or sue the school or whatever. All I know is that the Principal came out of his office and escorted me the length of the school to my classroom, beckoning the teacher into the hallway as he pointed me towards my seat.

When she returned Atom Bomb had a very red face and the yardstick was gone, never to return. I continued to get an X in Writing on my report cards but in general she stayed away from me, rarely asking me for an answer or even acknowledging my existence.

And I liked that just fine.