Fwd: History of Parkdale

So you seem to like stories about Parkdale…reflections

Here are a few to add to your collection:

THE YEAR WAS 1963
THE PLACE WAS PARKDALE C.I.

I think my dad was startled when it became apparent that both my brother and I were to become high school history teachers…both accepted jobs at Parkdale because of John Ricker and Evan Cruickshank.  Senior teachers…admirable teachers…real teachers.  

“Alan, if you come to Parkdale Collegiate, you will never leave.”  Both John and Evan said the same thing which was odd.  And I thought false.  I mean, who stays in the same job for his or her entire adult life?  Lots of other things to do in this world.   Why would anyone stay at PCI for 35 years?  Well John and Evan were right.  I stayed at PCI for 35 years and am damn glad I did.  Just full of adventures:

Let me share a few:

Male teachers are scared of female students.  “Be careful, Alan, young girls often fantasise about their teachers which can lead to deep trouble.” Touching is poison.  “Just remember that teachers are considered ‘guilty until proven innocent’ in any situation.”  All of my fellow young teachers got this caution in one way or another.  So I was careful to make sure that I was never in my room alone with female students.  That was one reason I coached football…always had a few jocks in the room talking about football lore.

That was some protection but not enough.  I lived nearby with my wife on Westminster Avenue and walked home each evening.  Cut to the quick.  A nice young Grade Nine girl really liked me.
I know some of you will find that hard to understand but it was true.  She got in the habit of following me home.  At a distance mind you but she was often just a block or so behind me.
And that was scary.  One time remains etched in my mind.  She was there.  I felt it  But I dared not turn around so I used my private detective skills by studying reflections in Queen Street store windows.   One had really good angled glass so I paused.  And sure enough, there she was on the other side of the street.  Also pausing.  I waited for her to pass by.  Nothing happened. Then by chance I looked at the goods in the store.  Ladies wear…worse…ladies undergarments…brassieres, girdles, etc.  Not the best place to pause.  So I made a dash for the Roncesvales street car.  Packed. leaped aboard.  And so did she.  Now the weird and unbelievable part of the story is that her mother was standing there near the cash box.  “Hello, Mr. Sketch, how is Sheila (not real name) doing?”  We had met on parents night.  I made some small talk and then
got off the street car a couple of stops ahead.  As they did.   What happened?  Absolutely nothing. Sheila grew up normally, married, had children.  And probably she does not even remember that infatuation.  She was a really nice little Grade Nine student and is no doubt a really nice mother and likely grandmother today.