Tangent: Teacher's teeth

I had a lovely teacher in Standard five. His name was Mr Salamon and he was about 5' 2" inches tall ( if that!). He had a loose set of false teeth which wobbled when he talked, making him spit at anyone sitting in the front row.
One day he was giving us a Geography lesson, when the blackboard on the easel behind him toppled forward, hitting him on the back of his head, and ejecting his false teeth on to the carpet in front of him.
Without any hesitation, ignoring the giggles erupting from the room, he calmly picked them up, wiped them off with a spotlessly clean handerchief, placed them back into his mouth and carried on with the lesson.
What a gentlemen, what a star.
I loved him from that day and forever more.

I have a few small dentures in my mouth, but thank goodness they aren't loose and don't make me spit.

Motherly Joss

We had an English teacher in Grade 6 called Mr Potter. he was so typically 'British', an old fuddy duddy, charmingly old fashioned and eccentric. He always called me 'Motherly Joss' and it irritated me so much. It was such a plain, boring, dull nickname. I often wished he had called me 'Princess Joss' or even 'Queen Joss' would've been fine. Specially as I was plain, fat and dull in those days!

Just as I adored my teacher in Grade 2, so I absolutely worshipped Mrs Purchase, who I had for English in Grade 8.
She was a minute woman, probably the age I am now, and she was superb. She revelled in Literature, groaned over Grammer and encouraged all forms of Drama. She was years ahead of her time in her teaching methods and she gave me such a passion for Romeo and Juliet and poetry, specially odes. She was a great fan of the ode!
All I wanted to do was to 'follow in her footsteps' and become as good a teacher as she was.
I have succeeded. Thank you Mrs P

Measles and love

At the end of my second year at school, I got measles and couldn't see my teacher (who I absolutely adored and worshipped). I was so upset, and the more I begged to go to school, the more angry Ma got. I felt my life was going to end right there and then if I couldn't say goodbye to her.
Maybe that's one of the hidden reasons why I have always loved teaching this age group, and hate saying good bye to them on the last day of the year.

Pain- some gain

1.) The piano lessons:

PAIN: were not what I wanted, but then which little girl wants to learn how to play the piano.

GAIN: far from being a concert pianist, I can still read music and have adequate skill in order to music to 5 year olds (which is great fun).

2.) The wooden ruler with a steel edge:

Pain: was what some teachers used to discipline us with at primary school. Mr Logan often struck me on the upper arm, mainly because I was a chatterbox, which often drew blood. Of course when I got home, Ma always said, 'Serves you right, you must have done something bad!'. No parents went rushing off to their local Council or Member of Parliament in those days screaming, Get rid of this man!'

GAIN: I became a teacher and have had 39 wonderful years, giving my 'all' to thousands of children, and never once laying a hand on them, unless in kindness and love.

3.) My mother's methods of punishment :

Pain: included the plastic flyswatter, her heavy hand and the dreaded 'sjambok', which was a thin leather strip, about 3-5 feet long, curving from one thin end to a very thick handle. This was kept behind their bedroom door, and if it was only used for very severe crimes!!

GAIN: I have tried to bring up my own two sons with firmness , fairness and honesty, and of course-the main ingredient- unconditional love. I believe I have largely succeeded.

Dancing with dad

Sunday evening after supper was the best time of the week for me. I was only 7, and dad taught me to dance. I was having ballet classes by then, and loved to dance anywhere and everywhere. He was an excellent ballroom dancer, very skilled and light on his feet. Talking of feet, that's how we started, me perched on the front of he shoes and holding on tight, while he slowly and steadily led me round the room showing me what to do. Then I'd hop off and try it myself.

Victor Sylvester's 'An apple for the teacher' flowed through the room as we whirled round and round and round. I mastered the foxtrot, waltz, tango, and cha cha cha in these blissful sessions.

Although he used to get ratty and sometimes yell at me when I made mistakes, these were wonderful times leaving me with good memories.

Report time

I never excelled at school and 'report day' was torture for me. I knew before she even opened the sealed envelope (wonder why Dad never did it), that I was 'in for it'. The worst thing, besides the low marks (never failing, just low) was the fact that every teacher seemed to find me too chatty, too loud, too chatty, too chatty! Nowadays I would be labelled as ADHD or whatever the latest term for 'hyperactivity' is. I was restless, fidgety, bored with my lessons, and wanted to be free. I remember looking out of the window most of the time (when I wasn't chatting) and wishing I could just leave that dreary room and that even drearier teacher behind and flee. The comment I always got was 'you can do better'. I did succeed after school in all my studies, but by then I didn't need or want her praise. I have always said 'Well done, I am proud of you' not only to my own sons, but also to the hundreds of kids that I have taught in the past 39 years of teaching.

Move over, Diana Ross

I was smokin'. I was cookin'. I was de buziness! I was standing on the front 'stoep' wearing Ma's gorgeous snake skin (not really) very high heels, with the peep toe at the front. Yup, long before the girls of today ever wore them, I did, and I was 'cool'. Then there was my school cardigan, not draped over my shouders like Doris Day, but plonked on my head, tied under the chin a la looong flowing hair. My audience was Ma and Dad, who had come on to the stoep to sit on their bench and relax, smoke a few fags and discuss the day's work events. They were quite compatible in this way, sharing fags and discussing their day. And Ian was there of course, championing me all the way. It didn't matter that the sun was setting and the day fading into night slowly and quietly, I felt I was bathed in the limelight, belting out my tune, the same one day in and day out with new words, all along the line of 'you're a lady, a pretty lady, the best of all, a wonderful singer' ad nauseam. I was going to be that singer, famous and loved by all. Look at me now, just a teacher. But still loved by all (well 5 year olds anyway.)

First day at school

Ian went to 'big' school only a year after me, as we are 17 months apart in age. His teacher in Grade One was Mrs Skoen. She had been teaching Grade One for 27 years and had a severe black bun, severe black rimmed glasses and was as stout as she was tall(or short). She bent over the desk to write something in someone's book, and he kicked her in the ass. Now to really appreciate this story, you have to understand that Ian would never hurt a fly, let alone kick a teacher. He was passive, shy, quiet, introverted, sort of a 'scared of his own shadow' little boy. What possessed him to attack her so vehemently, we'll never know, but he did. I am not sure whether my parents were called in to remove this pest, or not, but we loved giggling about this episode afterwards and he obviously felt very proud of this remarkably brave deed.