Big moments and Butter Tarts

Whew! What a week! Almost more than my retired hind end can handle ... almost!

The week started off retirement-ly with a couple of us-days as we readied ourselves for the looming change of moving with de-cluttering, downsizing, debating what goes + what goes out, boxing up our lives, and the occasional recreational walk or ride. There have been weeks where I was willing to take on supply work but the notifications of potential jobs were eerily silent, but as it always happens when you mentally block off a part, my phone was screaming like a Banshee with offers aplenty. I realized on a lovely ride around my adopted city that my rides there were numbered and that left me feeling a little sad.

We were eager for the dawning of Wednesday with the Sr Boys' Rugby GBSSA game scheduled at North CI that afternoon, partly because it's rugby and who doesn't love that, but mostly because my buddies Mike Alcombrack, Adam Claus, Burke Erwin, and Alex Griffin were chomping at the bit to cap off a brilliant season of development and growth with a championship. I had the RAV packed, the camera charged, and my eagerness barely in check as we pointed northeast for the commute ... again ... back to Barrie. I'm stoked to report that while most definitely a nail-biter thanks to some inspired play on behalf of dreaded rival Innisdale, my adopted Vikings pulled out a literal last second win when the scrum half hit the penalty kick with no time left on the referee's clock to win 13-12. Although in my very biased opinion, North could have had the game won multiple times thanks to a nasty case of the "dropsies", the huge crowd of rugby fans definitely got their money's worth with an Uber-exciting game! When I sat down that night to edit the photos I took, I was surprised to see I had over 700 shots to choose from, albeit a host of which were the celebratory variety as the kids strutted their stuff lofting the GBSSA plaque and SCAA banner. 

Wednesday was topped of with another heart-warmer as a few of the retired old farts, myself included, met at the Queen's Hotel patio for a bevy and a chat. This is something that has been happening regularly for years prior to my own retirement, but went digital during the pandemic. While the newness of Zoom was exciting, I have to say that getting back to the face to face sharing of a "meal" is really what charges our human batteries. If you're reading this, and you're a retired Central teacher, feel free to join us to commiserate on the first Wednesday of each month.

Thursday was the first of 3 supply days with HPE + Geo for a friend at North. I had done a couple of days earlier in the semester already so I felt a small pang of familiarity with the kids, and I'm happy to pass on that the day was a pleasurable experience. Although the day started out wet, the clearing skies created a cloudless glorious afternoon for the walk down to the waterfront to my mother's condo since Joyce was working with her "adopted" little ones and had the car. 

Friday's spectacular dawn, complete with a colour show that would shame a peacock, signalled that the day could be a cracker weather-wise, bringing a wide grin to my face both because I could get the kids outside to break up the monotony of a June Friday and that my Aunt Merle's Celebration of Life was scheduled for the midday. The morning's HPE class was an entertaining affair as 3 of us organized a "Fun Friday" on the field that prompted 80+ student's giggles and laughter. When the lunch bell rang, I dashed over to Union Cemetery for Merle's internment, and was supremely grateful for the opportunity to reconnect with my extended family. The celebration was gratifying because, as I wrote in this post (CLICK), my childhood was spent in the company of my cousins and holds great significance to me. Merle was cremated meaning that we could honour her wishes of a small vial of her being put into my father's niche, per her wishes, thanks to the love she felt from his support over their lives. To have my father's niche open, with his burial urn in full view, I held a couple of sobs in check as I remembered them both fondly. With Covid almost in the rearview mirror, my cousins and I (+ our now adult children) vowed that we would arrange a time this summer to rekindle our former close ties. A win-win for me, if I'm honest.

The coup de grace for Friday was the news that North's Girls' Rugby brilliantly played the David role by slaying the Goliath that was the previously unbeaten Nantry side to win the GBSSA title 7-5 and making it a two-fer for the Vikings. Although working prevented me from capturing the moments with my Nikon because the game was an early start down in Alcona, I was none the less stoked to receive the text sharing the great news! 

Saturday's early rising was thanks to my plans to share the BT~175km with a bunch of like-minded acquaintances as we peddled our way around the Simcoe Country Rail Trail, a 160km route that circumvents the northern portions of Simcoe using the old CPR lines. Much of the trail is crushed gravel, but there are portions in the northern-most part that are paved, and others that are packed earth resulting in the occasional mud bath as spray from the tires spares no one. The BT part stands for Butter Tart, a Kryptonite of many a cyclist, with one of our waypoints that day being the annual Midland Butter Tart festival. One of the group lives in Perkensfield and his adorable wife met us at Farm2Door, a quaint little shop and Butter Tart stop, with water-refills and watermelon, the perfect companion to the megalodonic tarts offered there. 

Even though I consider myself as more than a casual cyclist, riding "the Loop" is a daunting task that proves a challenge each time I attempt it. My kilomterage of late buoyed my abilities and I felt pretty capable throughout, so much so that I chose to top off the 160km with a ride to Angus to meet Joyce who had spent the day with our daughter. Since my Garmin's battery died near the DeCast plant on the 30th sideroad, the total kilometres were a guess, but I'm confident that ~175 is close. The afternoon's rain showers meant that I had brought some of the trail out to Maddi's with me, her garden hose handling the muck admirably. 

The pink tees proudly displayed here ... although I do much better behind the camera since you can barely see me holding my trusty steed aloft in the background ... are thanks to the fundraising prowess of Cycle Simcoe and available to anyone who requests one after completing the Rail Trail.

As I sit in front of my laptop on a wet Sunday morning, recounting the week's events and planning for the coming week's excitement as we take possession of our new-to-us condo on Wednesday, I have to admit that despite the jammed calendar, this past week was filled with smile-worthy moments that left my heart full of happiness and joy. 

As the Tragically Hip once crooned, "wait and see what tomorrow brings!"

All it takes is $$$

Blyth, ON, is an idyllic, quaint little village about 85 km northwest of Waterloo, 100 km north of London, or 130 km southwest of Owen Sound, depending on which Ontario landmark makes the most sense to you. I would tell you that it's only 20 east of Goderich, but that's likely only a place you've heard of, and not somewhere you'd know. According to Wikipedia, "Blyth is a village in North Huron, Huron County, Ontario, Canada, at the intersection of Huron County Road 4 and Huron County Road 25. Blyth is also 24 km inland from Lake Huron. Despite its small size (pop ~ 1000), Blyth has a significant national presence. The village attracts hundreds of thousands of visitors annually to its world-renowned theatre, destination craft brewery and large municipal campground. As well, Blyth has several prominent employers creating job opportunities not found in many rural regions of Canada."

First settled in 1851, Blyth was not known by that moniker until the good ol' Canada Post's blunder in 1856 when it named the village after the British land surveyor Henry Blyth, for a reason I could not uncover, but it was "put on the map" by the establishment of a CPR stop on the line from Goderich to Guelph. Incorporated in 1877, Blyth is a rural Canadian success story. "The village has been recognized as a model for Canadian rural communities who incorporate arts and culture to diversify community economy to move beyond solely an agriculture-based model." or so says Wikipedia.

Why tell you all of this about a place prototypically rural?

It's that wee tidbit about the CPR rail line that led to my introduction to Blyth, when I recently visited this sleepy little hamlet at the behest of my friend Dave Byers, for a midday retirement lunch at the Cowbell Brewing Company, the classically styled but modernly outfitted microbrewery that is one of midwest Ontario's hidden little gems.

Dave and I are cyclists and that day was our discovery of the G2G ... the Guelph to Goderich Trail.

As cyclists, we choose to ride our bikes really, really far to justify eating delicious foods and drinking well crafted beers, and microbreweries are some of the finest places to do just that. According to Dave, a relative cornucopia of knowledge, Cowbell Brewery exists thanks to the business acumen of Grant Sparlings who founded Sparlings Propane back in 1951 and grew the value into a multi-million dollar venture. As Dave tells it, on his passing, old man Sparlings bequeathed what is believed to be 20 million to his grandchildren with the only stipulation being that they had to create a business in Blyth. Obviously blessed with vision, the result of that challenge is Cowbell Brewery, a microbrewery, a restaurant, a community partner, and a thriving business. I cannot do the building justice with photos, so simply didn't try. Even the photo-map above is a mishmash of a couple of poorly executed iPhone photos in an attempt to give you an idea of the treasures the building holds.

Since we had just hopped off the bikes after a 56 km ride from our starting locale of Millbank, a hamlet in the heart of Mennonite Country, we opted for an outdoor table on the side patio in hopes that the subtle zephyr would carry away the muskiness of our efforts, and keeping all things Covid in mind, it was the perfect choice. The fare of the day turned out to be a sharing of tacos and pizza, topped with a sample of Cowbell's finest efforts. The tacos came with beautifully seasoned shredded chicken, fresh toppings and a wonderful aioli, with my half standing absolutely no chance against the hunger the morning's ride had developed. The pizza was a simple pepperoni masterpiece on a handmade crust with a hint of a basil and oregano, lathered in a delicious marinara that perfectly complimented the generous sized chunks (not slices) of pepperoni. 

The only negative of the entire day came on the ride back when the forecasted rains made a fierce, albeit short, appearance tilting trees, drenching us to the skin, and making the trail ride an adventurous undertaking as visibility was cut to a few metres. As quickly as it arrived, it left, and the rest of the trek was as pleasant as you'd like.

The brilliance was capped by a return visit to Millbank's famous AnnaMae's Bakery for an encore of handmade apple fritters (round one was a couple of weeks ago on another ride with Dave) so sugary sweet, the risk of an instant cavity was profoundly real. I even became the dinner hero when I spied a freezer with turkey pot pie beside a shepherd's pie ... both made the trip back to Guelph ... landing me a loving hug and a peck on the cheek from my bestie. It was a small price to pay for stranding her in the condo for the day while I rode through some of Ontario's finest sights.

As my friend Kevin Simms, the guy who got me into cycling, once told me, "We ride so much so that our wives won't have to wipe our bums when we're 80!" Yes Kevin, cycling is about the tremendous health benefits, but it's also about the friendships made and enhanced through the shared efforts of a 112 km ride on a quiet Monday of retirement. 

Oh, and it's also about beers, sweets, and adventures.

Just sayin'!

Education is really about THE PEOPLE!

It'll come as not surprise to anyone who knows me that I'm a MASSIVE fan of teaching, but as I've pointed out in a number of posts in the past, I'm not in love with education right now. Having made that bold statement, I really must admit that reason NUMERO UNO for choosing teaching was the opportunity to meet, befriend, guide, influence, and assist the widest variety of people possible before St Peter rings his bell for me. Accomplishing all of those things with young people is obviously paramount to the role, but it also applies directly to those I've shared "combat in the trenches". 

This week featured another great moment in my personal history with that.

My time at Barrie Central was golden, of that there's no doubt, but where BCC featured more social consumption activities off campus, my adventures at Barrie North have been more activity based, not the least of which was the annual year-end golf night. Well, as Julie Andrews once crooned, "... somewhere in my wicked childhood, I must have done something good ..." since I was invited to add my "maturity" to the shenanigans as a member of Team Retired (+wannabe) featuring Peter Glass, Ron Andrews, and myself holding up the retired portion, and Burke Erwin longing for inclusion to our clan.

Making the trip up from Guelph for such a red-carpet affair would be easy to justify, at least in my mind, but I was able to swing a few supply days in financial support of said activity, completely satisfying all imposed conditions of being on a fixed income (says I with a mischievous grin). 

The Annual BNC Golf Night is a traditional romp through the fields of Simoro for 9 holes of inconsistent golf, social banter, wisecracks, and boisterous laughter lubricated by the offerings of the drink cart. Being a thoughtful chap, I planned ahead by securing a lift from the honourable Mike Alcombrack to the course, and arranging for my adorable bride to retrieve her giggly mess of a spouse afterward. Far be it from me to over-indulge, but was a safe bet that the legal limit would be surpassed since the lubrication really does make the experience more pronounced.

I've written on a number of occasions about my relationship with Ron (the dapper gentleman on the far right), so regular readers will be well aware of our wide assortment of shared experiences, and will not be in the least bit surprised at our intentions to add to the legacy. As one of my dearest, most cherished friends, he occupies the top rung on my ladder of buds.

Pete Glass (bearing his trademark grin and Viking's green) was a guy that I had know of for a really long time, but really didn't get to know until my days spent inside the walls of Barrie North. One profound memory I have was the huge smile and welcoming attitude as he extended a hand to me on my first week there, and I'm thrilled to admit that it simply improved from that point forward as we toiled away on the frontlines of our personal war against ignorance. Quick with a quip or a compliment, Pete possesses a keen sense of humour, a great propensity for keeping his composure, a humongous heart, and a genuine interest in helping people. Listening to his stories from the first year of retirement, life is all good in Glass-Land. Life being what it is, I am convinced that the closure of Central that prompted my move to North was preordained to allow a friendship with the "Glassman" to flourish.

Burke Erwin (far left and handsome) is an enigma ... meant in the most positive of ways! An ex-varsity football stud who teaches English and drama yet can make a guitar wail like a Banshee, "Burkee" is the possessor of a warm and engaging personality combined with unbridled generosity. As a firm believer in the power of a positive attitude, he is continually upbeat with a "glass is half-full" outlook on life. The students at North are VERY familiar and appreciative of Burke's "hidden" talents as he fronts the teacher band Paper Jam that performs in the school cafe at lunch on most Fridays. I can confidently say he has become a really good chum.

TOURNAMENT SYNOPSIS:

Set into the familiar Scramble Format, our quadrumvirate weebled and wobbled our way around the course displaying flashes of brilliance bookended by periods of incompetence, but as we rounded the halfway point of a 9 hole journey, the rust was wearing off and we rediscovered our mojo. In the end, even though we knew a 4 or 5 under would be needed to secure the unofficial championship, we managed a respectable 2 under thanks largely to the putter magic of Burke who drain a few radar-focused long-rangers to score some birdies.

The delicious post-match BBQ meal fresh in our bellies, we were called to the prize table, and spying a slightly hidden gem, I walked home with a 15 pack of golfballs and a huge smile on my clock. As erratic as I am with a club, replenishing the supply is paramount to another afternoon of shenanigans on the links. 

Many thanks to (1) Mary Ellen Tupling's otherworldly background organization skills, (2) funny frontman Scott Laurin's acerbic tongue and booming baritone at the prize table, and (3) the friendly and accommodating staff at Simoro GC. The night was as memorable as it was entertaining.

Shout out to my beloved bride for agreeing to retrieve her giggly hubby in the waning light of the day.

A Roller-coaster of a week!

I have some grave concerns for civilization after events brought to my attention this week, and combined with some amazing experiences, I can feel the consequences of a roller-coaster of emotions as we slide into the weekend. Like the old adage in education where feedback should be wrapped in a gift of 3 fantastics and 1 work-on, this week featured (1) amazing rides, (2) rekindling a passion, and (3) reacquainting with some dear friends, but the warm-fuzzies were certainly overshadowed by yet another mass shooting tragedy in the US.

Always start with the good stuff, says I.

I treated myself to some pretty amazing rides this past few days, fuelled by Ma Nature's gift of sunny skies and warmer temperatures, resulting in a great feeling of peace and contentment. My travels included a buddy ride to the west of Guelph with my old friend Dave Byers, a connection made back in the days when I coached at Olympia Sports Camps, riding the G2G (Guelph to Goderich) Trail from the hamlet of Millbank to Elora, a tasty treat at the Elora Brewing Company ... highly recommended ... and back. On a different day, I headed in the opposite direction for solo ride from Guelph to Erin, a coffee and treat from Erin's Tin Roof Cafe, and back. I even included a trip north from Guelph to Fergus to Elora and back. I count my lucky stars that I married well because Joyce rarely takes issue with me being gone for hours at a time as I traverse the gravel roads and trails of the community.

I also succeeded in combining some supply work with a passion that was pushed to the back burner during this pandemic when I hauled out and dusted off my camera bag to prowl the touchlines of Barrie North, happily capturing the Vikings rugby program as they put the hard work tasked by their coaches into play in a high school season match. Kudos to Mike Alcombrack, Burke Erwin, Adam Claus, Rich Jessome, and Alex Griffin for taking on the gargantuan task of running the Sr Boys, Jr Boys, and Varsity Girls programs as a management team ... and when I say running, I also meaning winning!

I adore taking photos of high school sports!

At the risk of sounding like an old Fuddy-Duddy, the advancements in camera technology has provided athletes with opportunities that simply didn't exist back in my playing days. I don't own a top-of-the-line model, but my equipment certainly satisfies the demands of capturing the blood and tears of high school endeavours, while on-line connections make sharing the fruits of that labour a snap. While my mates and I had to wait months after purchasing a Yearbook before greedily devouring it's pages to spy the shots captured from the sidelines, I was recently able to gift North's players and coaches with over 700 decent shots (if I do say so myself) that are easily shared amongst the team within 72 hours of the event, and that's after some post-production tweaking!

It's often been remarked that some sport communities are small places. Rugby is certainly at the top of the list as I'm oft reminded when I attend a variety of games from the semi-professional Toronto Arrows, to the local Barrie Rugby Club, or the amazing pitch behind Barrie North Collegiate, and this past week was no different as the glorious weather and the allure of high school sports back in play following the string of pandemic powered shut downs lured substantial crowds of supporters to the touchlines. Among attendees recently were guys that left a huge impression on me as we shared time at the now defunct Barrie Central. Ron Andrews and Brad Chestnut came to support the efforts of Jay Malandrino as he refereed the match between Barrie North and the Sam Loucks coached Bear Creek. Even though I was pretty busy behind the lens, time to rekindle the flame with these guys is always possible, resulting in huge smiles, thunderous laughter, and a few emotionally charged hugs. 

Then the news of Uvalde, Texas hit the news, the coaster reached the top of the peak, and the looming descent sent pangs of rage straight into my soul.

Another distraught, demented American gun owner had taken the lives of his countrymen, many of which were children, before consequently losing his own young life in the name of some twisted revenge spawned deep in the recesses of his psyche. As the angst and frustration was captured in the reports over this latest in what seems like a never ending string of tragedies, renewed calls for changes to America's gun registration laws were sent heavenward with upturned palms in sheer frustration that more children's lives had been stolen. Social Media's pages were soon filled with messages, rants, graphics and links condemning America's politicians who had chosen power and money over lives, sitting on their collective hands instead of risking the steady flow of financial support from the NRA.

One resource brought to my attention was an MSN article that listed the 248 mass shootings of 2022. According to the article, "Mass shootings are incidents involving several victims of firearm-related violence. There is no universally accepted criteria for what qualifies as a mass shooting, but many US organizations, such as the non-profit Gun Violence Archive and the Congressional Research Service, define it as an incident in which four or more people, excluding the perpetrator, are shot at one location at roughly the same time. By this metric, there have been 248 mass shootings in the US so far in 2022, killing more than 250 people." CLICK for the article.

Let that sink in, folks ... TWO HUNDRED AND FORTY-EIGHT!

In the first 5 months of 2022!

Granted that the USA leads the globe in tragedies of this type, the atrocities of the Russia-Ukraine war only serve to fuel the planet's despondence as we collectively sink into a Saddam-Gomorrah like state, bewilderment and frustration filling our consciousness. We humans seem to have a propensity for destroying each other with alarming ease and thoroughness. The reasons behind it all are complex, varied and extensive, but I don't mind admitting that I long for a day when the news reports are ripe with stories of good will, charity and kindness. 

The hope that I cling to fits nicely into my metaphorical roller-coaster and it's peaks, valleys, g-force turns, and cacophony of emotions. 

Whew! Maybe next week will take it easy on me.

It's just my perspective!

As many of you know, I have been back in the classroom in the role of a supply teacher since I retired, and the wide array of teaching coverages has given me ammunition to argue my opinion about a cancerous tumour wreaking havoc on the education system. I chose my words purposefully there ... this trend truly resembles the carnage that cancer inflicts on the body, disrupting lessons, corrupting learning environments, and creating scores of teacher burnout. Lawnmower parents' children are unnecessarily destroying classroom management through their inordinate demand of teacher's time to serve their unbridled desires as they prance unobstructed through the flowery meadows conjured inside their young minds and it's creating an entitled, myopic attitude towards the world around them.

This post was inspired by an article I read recently that was posted on the Blog Bored Teacher.

Lawnmower Parents Are Setting Children Up for Failure
by mscourterrest

We’ve all heard of helicopter parents. These moms and dads hover obsessively over their children, watch their every move, and intervene on behalf of the child whenever a problem arises. To a teacher, these are the adults that a teacher seems to interact with more so, than the child who they spend 8 hours a day with. As exhausting as these headache-inducing parents are (another email about grades, Mrs. Smith, REALLY?!), I’m here to tell you that the real nightmare is a new breed of adults called lawnmower parents.

Lawnmower parents are, without a doubt, oppositional forces to everything educators are trying to teach their students. You see, dear reader, helicopter parents only intervene when they sniff out something wrong that has upset their amazing child. Lawnmower parents completely erase any and all obstacles for their child so that their precious pumpkin can navigate smooth waters instead of learning how to correct course on choppy seas. As a teacher, this is the absolute worst. I can deal with parents being upset about their child suffering. It’s natural for parents to want to protect their children from any and all harm. However, I cannot deal with parents bulldozing the ground so children have nothing to be upset about.

If parents, our greatest assets, don’t teach their children valuable coping skills, how will our next generation deal when these problems befall them?

Any good teacher will tell you that their goals for their students have little to do with content matter. As a teacher, my biggest concern is not if my students can leave my class reciting Shakespeare. Rather, I care that they learn valuable skills like teamwork, resiliency, and discipline that they can carry over into whatever career they choose later in life. With lawnmower parents, these important skills become a wistful dream – not a tangible reality.

If all challenges are erased, how will these students gain the grit needed when things don’t go their way?

Lawnmower parents are creating a false land of delusion that is sure to set our students up for failure. The next generation will surely endure relationship woes, financial issues, and work troubles. If parents, our greatest assets (and, at times, our biggest nemesis), don’t teach their children valuable coping skills, how will our next generation deal when these problems befall them? Lawnmower parents are creating a crop of children who will be out of luck when life gives them lemons. And that, my friend, is a tough pill to swallow.

I have witnessed firsthand the effects of lawnmower parents and let me tell you… it is not pretty. I’ve had students cry over having to wait 5 minutes to eat lunch, having a ball lightly skim their knee, and seeing the playground with their eyes, but not being able to play on it yet. With each of these students, I have a long talk about resiliency and each time, they look up at me with large, terror-filled eyes. The concept of being a buoyant human being is lost on them, and it is clear that this is the first time they are hearing how to cope with something. And each time, I think the same thing: Thanks lawnmower parents. I need you to work with me, NOT against me.

While this epidemic may seem comical to some, I can assure you that it is very real and very frightening. We need to let our kids fall, fail, and figure out how to stand back up. We can give them the tools to get back up, but we also need to let them practice this important skill. As educators, it is our duty to equip our students with traits that will get them far in life. So stand aside, lawnmower parents. I’m not letting you raise a wave of children who will be paralyzed by insurmountable hurdles. You can try to knock us down, but us teachers are extremely used to trudging up mountains.

One of my recent supply duties was in a Student Success (SS) class. For the more mature group reading this, Student Success is a relatively new component of today's school system, and it is chock full of Lawnmower children. Basically, SS is special education for students without a biological impairment. While students with an IEP (Individual Education Plan) have a diagnosed, documented learning disability that disrupts their learning, SS students are identified by teachers and administrators through anecdotal observation that prompts a referral to the SS teacher for assistance. The disruption to their learning is just as profound as Special Ed students, and although small number will have an undiagnosed LD, the main difference relates to "nurture" rather than "nature". The whole idea of Student Success relates back to the notion of credit recovery, or put in layman's terms, a second chance to earn a credit when the first chance was impaired in some manner, be it consciously decided (like not attending, not doing or submitting the work) or through circumstance (suffering major influences outside of school). As I see it, the SS room is profoundly impacted by the children of Lawnmower Parents because, IMHO, they cannot handle life when they aren't calling the shots.

Don't misunderstand me, I am not for a second insinuating that ALL children making use of the SS room are a problem, but just like the classroom, there is a growing number that are sucking an inordinate amount of educational energy like some intergalactic Black Hole. The best way to explain this to those who have not spent time in the education system is to trumpet their prototypical angst, "It's not my fault!" or "I don't wanna do it!"

(Cue the sarcasm)

Of course it's not! That's because your parents have removed all potential obstacles from your life in their distorted attempt to "protect" you, but in doing so, they've robbed you of the life lessons that come with failure and adversity, reinforcing your attitude that you and your whims are the only thing things that matter. To make matters worse, when you do choose poorly and have an opportunity to learn through the "School of Hard Knocks", your parents raise the roof with accusations of incompetence, neglect and unprofessionalism in an attempt to prove how much they love you. All of those efforts simply degrade the integrity of your teacher in your eyes, and reinforce your narcissistic viewpoint.

Where this all hits me straight in the gut is a conversation I had recently with a young teacher whom I feel has their heart in the right place and displays some incredible teaching potential. They were completely despondent about the education system as it stands right now, so much so that they were seriously considering changing careers. Were that to happen, IMHO, we would lose a really good one.

Way back when I first started my career, there was a small poster that circulated that contained a set of rules accredited to Bill Gates, and its message attested that school was a Utopian society that in no way, shape, or form resembled "real" life. The Gates rules were meant as a warning that the "real" world was not interested in the least that you "don't wanna do it" if you wished to continue to earn enough cash to put a roof over your head and food in your fridge. While some of the more mature readers of this post will nod in agreement with Gates' rules, the reality is that they contain some truths that are undeniable, some truths that are negotiable, and some truths that don't really apply any longer. 

Lawnmower parents don't like Gates' rules. 

I'll sum this whole rant up with acknowledging that my number of years on this planet has significantly skewed my perspective of all of this and these thoughts are my opinions, not rules. If you've made it this far and you still don't agree with me, that's perfectly fine with me, and I'm in no way offended by that because I'm really quite okay with people disagreeing with what I say.

For the sake of the future education of my grandchildren, I hope that we as a society start to tell people like Lawnmower Parents to stop creating problems just because they don't wish to do the hard parenting when their child chooses poorly. As a friend said to me as we talked about this very subject, "The inmates are running the asylum" and that scares the bejeezus out of me.

Here's hoping this too shall pass.

Keep your fork!

Keep your fork!

When I was a "wee" lad, I played football at Barrie Central for two amazing and well respected gentlemen, Mr Bruce Clarke (aka Clarky) and Mr Dave Garland (aka the silver fox). For a reason that I no longer remember, I focused on the Offensive side of the game, which meant that the largest percentage of my minutes in the Central experience was under the very watchful eye of coach Garland. We had what would best be termed a Love-Hate relationship ... he Loved to Hate me ... or so it felt to my 18 year old brain. It eventually dawned on me that it wasn't 100% personal. It had more to do with the fact that I was a lineman and not a heaven-sent running back, like coach Garland had been in his glory days at Western.

The good news ending to this story is it was never Love-Hate as my adolescent feelings thought, but rather, coach's intensity in his interactions with the majority of his players. After graduation and a successful university career, I was hired to teach in Simcoe County and eventually found myself back at Central where coach and I became good friends as colleagues. Coach Garland became Dave, a transition that took a little before it became instinctual, and we even spent a couple of seasons coaching together. 

When Dave finally pressed the retirement button, he was invited to speak to the student body at the year-end assembly that was a popular tradition at Central. When he walked to the podium, he was holding a larger-than-normal fork, and my curiousity was immediately piqued. The relatively short speech he gave stayed with me for a long time, mostly because it resonated with my own home experience. In his talk, Dave revealed his deep feelings for his mother, and the very fond memories he had of her, thanks to what appeared to be a wonderful childhood experience. 

The imagery of the fork soon came to light ...

Perhaps paraphrasing a bit since it was over 20 years ago, Dave spoke, "When I was a young boy, we were a busy family but one tradition that was paramount in our household was the Sunday family dinner. It was always a labour of love, usually consisting of some of our favourite foods, and we almost always had second helpings. Without fail, as the dinner dishes were being cleared, my mother would always remind us to keep our fork. We had come to know that she meant she had poured her heart into a delectable, decadent treat for dessert, and she didn't want us to miss out. Over those years, it became imprinted on my soul that a kept fork was synonymous with something special."

At this point in his talk, Dave held the fork up for all to see, and proclaimed, "Being a part of Barrie Central has been a glorious Sunday family meal, full of the favourites I love, but for this next step, I'm going to keep my fork because it will most certainly be a treat."

On one of my deep dives into the Internet, I came across this story, and it immediately reminded me of Dave's talk.

There was a young woman who had been diagnosed with a terminal illness and had been given three months to live. So as she was getting her things ‘in order,’ she contacted her Pastor and had him come to her house to discuss certain aspects of her final wishes.

She told him which songs she wanted sung at the service, what scriptures she would like read, and what outfit she wanted to be buried in. Everything was in order and the Pastor was preparing to leave when the young woman suddenly remembered something very important to her.

‘There’s one more thing,’ she said excitedly.

‘What’s that?’ came the Pastor’s reply.

‘This is very important,’ the young woman continued. ‘I want to be buried with a fork in my right hand.’

The Pastor stood looking at the young woman, not knowing quite what to say.

‘That surprises you, doesn’t it?’ the young woman asked.

‘Well, to be honest, I’m puzzled by the request,’ said the Pastor.

The young woman explained. ‘My grandmother once told me this story, and from that time on I have always tried to pass along its message to those I love and those who are in need of encouragement. In all my years of attending socials and dinners, I always remember that when the dishes of the main course were being cleared, someone would inevitably lean over and say, ‘Keep your fork.’ It was my favorite part because I knew that something better was coming, like velvety chocolate cake or deep-dish apple pie. Something wonderful, and with substance!’

‘So, I just want people to see me there in that casket with a fork in my hand and I want them to wonder, ‘What’s with the fork?!’ Then I want you to tell them: ‘Keep your fork. The best is yet to come.’

The Pastor’s eyes welled up with tears of joy as he hugged the young woman goodbye. He knew this would be one of the last times he would see her before her death. But he also knew that the young woman had a better grasp of heaven than he did. She had a better grasp of what heaven would be like than many people twice her age, with twice as much experience and knowledge. She KNEW that something better was coming.

At the funeral people were walking by the young woman’s casket and they saw the cloak she was wearing and the fork placed in her right hand. Over and over, the Pastor heard the question, ‘What’s with the fork?’ And over and over again he smiled.

During his message, the Pastor told the people of the conversation he had with the young woman shortly before she died. He also told them about the fork and about what it symbolized to her. He told the people how he could not stop thinking about the fork and told them they probably would not be able to stop thinking about it either. He was right.”

So the next time you reach down for your fork let it remind you, ever so gently, that the best is yet to come. Friends are a very rare jewel, indeed. They make you smile and encourage you to succeed. Cherish the time you have, and the memories you share. Being friends with someone is not an opportunity, but a sweet responsibility

And just remember…keep your fork!

The BEST is yet to come!”

By Lindsay Cole 

These past couple of years have been challenging, to say the least, but as we race toward the light at the end of a very long and dark tunnel, I'll remind you to keep your fork.

Oh, and Happy Mother's Day to my own mom, Andrea Porter, to my bestie, Joyce Porter, and to my sister-in-laws Cheryl and Jen Porter. You are all deserving of a standing ovation!

Hold that pose!

Long time friends of mine will already be aware that I have a secret love affair with my camera. What I really love is action photography, specifically, high school or youth sporting events, because there's no better center of focus than a young person's sheer elation while competing in something they love. I find the cathartic release obtained through providing memories caught for eternity to young people I have met through coaching or family interactions both intoxicating and exhilarating. Unfortunately, this cursed pandemic put a large proverbial monkey-wrench in the youth sport gears over the past 2 years, but thankfully, schools have bravely risen to the challenge of post-pandemic activities and I recently found myself behind the lens again. To say I was pleased is the understatement of the decade.

The subject of the day was rugby, as it often is, and the location was a high school in my adopted home of Guelph where I have created some new friendships as an emergency supply teacher. The classroom conversations inevitably swing towards extracurriculars and I boldly surmised that I could "kill two birds with one stone" as the saying goes ... scratch my lens itch while providing the kiddos with some things for their "Gram" or other social medias.  

Way, way back, I had always been amazed at the skill some display wielding an SLR, or something akin, and I was motivated to learn more when then principal Russ Atkinson asked me ... actually tasked me ... with running the Barrie Central Yearbook. Since I was already interested in photography and I now had to teach others how to be proficient, I concluded that I had better start learning more about the confounded device.

My dear old dad chose Nikkor when I was a young lad, and that skewed my opinion of which camera manufacturers were the best, so it made perfect sense to me to become a Nikon guy. When pressed by students in my Yearbook class, I really didn't have a plausible argument other than that was what I knew. We were blessed to have a number of Nikon models so many of my lessons were centered on the workings of Nikon, but also had a few Canon's donated to the program so I was able to become familiar with those. I've had a relatively small number of students bring their own Sony or Pentax in but I didn't use them so I can't really form an opinion, but I'd wager that all SLRs are inherently the same, other than buttons being in different locations somewhere on the camera body. One opinion I formed, rightly or wrongly, is that Canon lenses are top of the field, while Nikon bodies are the most desirable.

Near the end of my time teaching both photography and Yearbook that spanned Central to North, a few students brought in mirrorless models of various manufacturers, and since they were enthralled about this "new" trend, I let them teach me the value of it's system, according to them at least. Based solely on the relatively few opportunities I've had to use a mirrorless model, I think I still prefer my ol' SLR, but that's likely a comfort thing rather than a proficiency thing.

Getting back to the task at hand, the day was moderately warm, the sunshine brilliant, the excitement of the school high (since it was a home opener), and the commitment of the athletes was full on as I gleefully snapped to my heart's content during the Varsity Girl's, Jr Boy's and Sr Boy's friendlies. Considering the noticeable absence of rugby experience over the past 2 school years, the execution of both skills and knowledge was surprisingly high, and I must confess that I missed a few outstanding opportunities because I was busy being a fan. Trying to get back into the saddle, I had to perform some minor post-production tweaks to them to correct the small errors of judgement in camera settings as the sun conditions changed over the afternoon. Having said that, I was mostly pleased with my efforts.

The next challenge is to get the few Gigs of pics to the coaches so that they can figure out how they wish to share my work with the athletes. It was much easier when I was on staff at a school since I was already known to the parents and admin, plus I had access to the school network, but enlisting the assistance of a friend on staff to help me, uploading the lot to the school network was easy peasy. I chose not to post the lot on-line because I wasn't sure what that school's attitude was about their on-line presence. Giving the coaches access and letting them decide how to share them with the athletes seemed to be the most prudent choice. 

After all was said and done, I don't mind admitting that I'm "Jonesing" for another opportunity! The rugby schedule seems to be at odds with the local forecast, and although I'm being altruistic, I'm not embracing the idea of snapping in the rain. 

Maybe Ma Nature will change her mind ... fingers crossed.