The Homework Kid

Well, that’s it. I am pissed. I am really pissed. My mom says I should just let it go, and be thankful things turned out that way. All of us should. Take advantage of the break. There’ll be more than enough challenges, she said, next year, when I start high school. I know all of that. I know more or less, what to expect there. Things will be different, for sure.

But I’m still here, in elementary school, most of the way through Grade 8. I know I used to grit my teeth and say I can see it through. Meaning to the end of the school year. Meaning having HER ride on my back, driving me nuts with her screeching. No, not just me, everyone. All of us. Which gave us a lot to talk about, didn’t it? Having a teacher who we couldn’t respect.

You could say that everyone going into her class kind of knew what to expect. She had a reputation, and not a good one, but then hardly any teacher in the school has a ‘good’ reputation, if you know what I mean. Maybe the primary-grade teachers do, but not the others. Some of them aren’t bad, some of them are pretty awful. You could say Mrs. McVetty’s was about as bad as they get. I had a friend at school a grade above me, a really good friend. We used to spend a lot of time together in the schoolyard, and after school. She would tell me about the things McVetty used to do. She hated her.

My mom said I should give her a chance, not rely on gossip. It wasn’t gossip, it was friendly advice. But you know, when September came around and we were first in her class, I thought what the hell! I wondered what all the fuss was about, because she seemed really good. I mean she explained things, it seemed as if she cared about whether we understood subjects like math, and she’d seem to be extra careful to see that everyone knew what was happening before she moved on to higher levels.

I really appreciated that. It helped me a lot, it really did. I felt pretty good about stuff, especially math and science, not my best subjects. That lasted for the first two months. And after that, wow, you wouldn’t believe the kind of atmosphere around our classroom. Not, as my mom said, conducive to learning. Because this teacher just kept going off the rails. Seems she couldn’t control the class, and she couldn’t control her reaction to the class.

Yep, some of us were kind of noisy and we didn’t like being told not to be. She began to move us all around the place, making us sit here and there and everywhere but where we wanted to, to get us away from one another. That only made things worse; because we were further apart from the people we really liked we just upped the activities that got her mad. We were louder, we were sneakier when she wasn’t looking, some of the guys began to airplane notes and the place went wild.

If you think we were loud, that was nothing compared to her. I mean she went berserk, completely nuts. She would screech at us like she was out of her mind. My mom said she could understand that; I drive her crazy, too. She said all of us should give a thought to the difficulty of teaching 24 hormone-charged obstreperous kids (her words). Tough, I said, other teachers do it and they don’t blow like Mount Olympus.

Funny thing about that, my mom’s sympathy for Mrs. McVetty, it just didn’t last. She stopped telling me to try to tone things down and set an example for the other kids once I told her that my teacher criticized my mom. My mom was shocked. Criticize her? What for? Well, Mom, I said, remember all those evening school events we usually don’t attend?

“Those useless non-events? That’s what she’s criticizing me for, for not hauling myself out in the evening after working a day job, working at home, looking after you and wanting nothing but to get into an early bed? That’s what’s wrong with me?”

Yeah, Mom”, I laughed "that’s what’s wrong with you".

“Hey, remember, chum, this was a mutual decision. After the first few we went to, we both decided it was a waste of time.”

“Yep. I remember. You don’t get any complaint out of me for bypassing them. I’m just telling you what my esteemed teacher said.”

“She said... What did she say?”

“That you’ve got your priorities screwed up.”

“She said that? Who the hell does she think she is, anyway?”

“Don’t get mad at me, Mom, I’m just telling you what she said. I don’t think that way. In fact, I felt really bad, insulted that she would even mention you. You are none of her business. I just walked away from her.”

“Oh.”

After that Mom didn’t have too much to say about Mrs. McVetty. Although I gave her plenty of opportunity. It was like, every day coming home from school she’d ask how was school and I’d tell her how awful it was. Because of our teacher.

Like, what kid wants to go to school to be screamed at every damn day? And she picked on me a lot. No, not just me, most of the other kids got it too, but me especially. That’s my opinion.

She’d get this idea that you were doing something you weren’t supposed to and she’d keep going at you until you were ready to scream. Even about who your friends were. A teacher is supposed to teach. She hardly does that, most of the time. You don’t expect a teacher to be a social worker, to get herself all worked up about the kids in her class having friends. Some kids don’t deserve to have friends. They turn on people who are decent to them. That’s what happened to me.

There’s this girl, Shawna, not Shawna MacDonald, Shawna Boyd. Everyone likes Shawna MacDonald. Shawna Boyd, well everyone just kind of ignored her. I thought she never did anything to me, why should I ignore her? So I didn’t, I spoke to her, and she kind of matched herself up with me, and it was annoying because I didn’t always want her around, but there she was, always in our group.

The other girls would glare at her and that made me include her more, but I resented doing it, kind of. She kept text-messaging me outside school, and I responded, always, but she was kind of a nuisance, know what I mean? And then I found out that she had lied to me, telling me that one my friends said horrible things about me. And then I found out it wasn’t true, and I had it out with her.

Now I don’t exactly ignore her, I speak to her, but I don’t let her hang around anymore. That’s just the way it is. So Mrs. McVetty gets on my case and wants to know all about it, what happened and why. She has no right to do that. I just told her ‘nothing, nothing’s wrong’.

Holly and Morgan can’t stand Mrs. McVetty, they’re worse than me about her. You can bet we have lots to talk about, and none of it very flattering to Mrs. McVetty. Come to think of it, there weren’t many kids in the class who even liked her, although a couple of kids did defend her reputation. They thought she was all right. Good for them. They were her little class pets, so it’s hardly surprising they would come out on her side. She never yelled at them. Well, hardly ever.

Like, it’s crazy, she gives us new math work, writes on the board how to understand the stuff, tells us here’s some homework, and anyone who doesn’t get it can ask her for special help. I was stupid enough to go to her a few times and ask for help. I know I was stupid, because she as much as said so. And instead of helping me she was really sarcastic, so I would never ask her for any help again. I managed to figure things out for myself anyway, because I’m really good with homework. Matter of fact, my friends ask me to help them mostly. Not that I‘m the smartest kid in the class, I’m not.

There’s a couple of kids who are good at everything, sports, math, science, history, geography. Art, too. I can’t draw anything to resemble what it’s supposed to be. I’m not bad at athletics, but not good, either, although it’s kind of fun. I am pretty good at writing. When we get assignments to write poetry or book reviews, or history reviews, I write the longest reports and reviews, and when I read my poetry in front of the class everyone listens and I get a huge applause. But Brian’s a much better poet than I am; he can write poetry like it’s nothing. I’ve got to feel really upset about something before I can produce a poem, don’t know why.

Anyway, all of us were really getting fed up. Not only did we have to put up with all this screaming abuse day after day, and listening to our teacher accuse us of being ignorant little brats and worse, but she kept assigning all kinds of homework. And tests, day after day, one test after another. The good thing about the tests, though, is that she said anyone who didn’t get a mark they were proud of, would be allowed to do the test over. I took advantage of that opportunity all the time, a lot of the kids didn’t bother. But I figure, anything that helps pump up your marks at the end of the year is worthwhile. Besides, I know if you keep doing things over, like repeating things, they eventually stick with you.

I know I do a lot of complaining about the homework, because there’s so much of it. But even though I do complain a lot, I don’t really mind it all that much. I guess I’m pretty organized, that way. Besides which, I don’t get out all that much, since we live in the country. It’s not like I can just go for a walk somewhere, other than on our property, all six acres of it. No thanks, really.

I used to invite my friends over and I’d go over to their places quite a lot. We used to sleep over all the time, for the entire week-end. I don’t do that so much anymore. Don’t really know why, just don’t. I do a lot of reading though, a whole lot. I treasure my books. Don't like to lend them out to anyone, because none of my friends are careful enough with books. I hate dog-eared pages, it's horrible that anyone could do that with a book. So I do a lot of reading, and sometimes I even read some of my favourites over again. Sometimes I get bored, but even though my mom says invite your friends over, I won't.

Anyway, we see one another all the time at school. Sometimes, for some of us, it’s enough. More than enough, some of the girls are really irritating sometimes. The guys not so much, because we don’t really hang out with them. I heard once, someone told me about a school that decided to separate the boys from the girls, and kept them in separate classes, so they could do an experiment that organized classes to be taught in a way that the teachers thought would be better for the boys, and the same for the girls. I think that sucks. It’s much better when the guys and the girls are together, in one class. It’s far more interesting. With the guys around you never know when something really funny is going to happen.

Yes, I’m kind of off track. I was explaining, or I meant to explain, how kind of mysterious it is that all of a sudden, Mrs. McVetty isn’t there any more. I don’t mean upstairs, in her head, we’re kind of convinced she’s not all there, actually. I mean for a few days last week we had ‘spares’ come in. When that happens, it’s guaranteed to be a boring day. They don’t teach, they just depend on you to do work that’s been assigned by your normal teacher. And if there’s no work that’s been assigned, the spares just look at what Mrs. McVetty has written down for them, and tell us to get on with things that way. Couldn’t be more boring. We learn nothing, nothing at all. That really, truly bugs me.

And then last week this guy came in. Said he’d be around awhile. He’s a new teacher, looks like he’s around 26, or something. I doubt he’s had all that much experience, although he told us he has. He said he’d be filling in for Mrs. McVetty for the rest of the year. We’ve got almost two months left in the school year, and she’s opted out. She said nothing to us, nothing at all. She did say, at the start of the school year, she said it was a pledge: she would do everything necessary to completely prepare us for high school. She promised. And then what did she do? bog off, that's what. That really burns me up.

Seemed at first it would be a big relief. No more headaches, no more having to stick our fingers in our ears while she screeches at us, telling us we’re the worst class she’s ever had, absolute morons. She didn’t use that word, but it was what she meant.

This guy is okay. I don’t think all that much of him, actually. Just another teacher, certainly not the best I’ve had, but not the worst, either. The worst is no longer in our classroom. It’s too early, I guess, to see whether he’ll be any better than her at teaching us stuff. But already we can see he’s not into all the stuff she was, assigning us poetry and book review studies, and math and geography and science. He’s a bit of a wuss, we all thought.

I asked some of the guys what they thought of him. Shrug. You’d think they might be more interested, kind of, because he’s a guy and they’re guys, but it doesn’t seem like they’re reacting that way at all. It’s just kind of as though they’re disinterested.

Guess Mrs. McVetty knocked the stuffing out of all of us. He’s got his own take on the curriculum, and classes aren’t slopping over any more. We hardly get any homework. You’d think I’d be happy about that, but I’m not. I miss the homework, I really do.

And, guess what? I actually feel a little cheated about not having homework to do after school. It’s like I feel my academic credentials will be plummeting, I won’t be learning as much as I need to know, and that really, truly sucks. If you’d asked me a month ago if I’d be feeling like this I would never have believed it.

I mean we really had an awful load of stuff to get done, every day of the week, and week-ends no exceptions. It was a miserable burden, even if we did get used to it. And now, all of a sudden, nothing. Okay, maybe we should just kind of adjust, coast on the fact that we’ve got it easy now for the rest of the school year. But it just doesn’t feel right.

So, we should celebrate because we don’t get headaches any more being exposed to some adult who isn’t capable of mustering enough internal resources to calmly teach and discipline the people in the class who are always out of line? You’d think so. I’d have thought that way.

Okay, the same kids are still acting up. At first this guy, Mr. Masterson, just calmly put them in their place. And they shut up. Then that didn’t work any more. And he began yelling. It was different than what Mrs. McVetty used to do. This is a guy, and he raises his voice, and it’s loud and strong, not shrill and excited. Just a big, surprising blast. And everyone shuts up.

He yells “I don’t have to take this crap!”. And everyone shuts up.

A Woodlands Drama

The imperious dome of the sky
is resolutely blue, with a faint
haze of deeply humid air, slightly
wafted by an over-heated wind,
rustling foliage, relieving but
minimally the cloying atmosphere.

All is tranquil, barely a sound
emanates from any ambient source.
Even the depleted watercourse
no longer runs but lethargically;
barely a ripple to glance back
the burning orb of the sun.

A sudden, high-pitched shriek
alarms the air, as a hawk pitches
itself into spirals through the
dense heat of the sky. A blackbird,
pecking desultorily on dry ground
suddenly spreads wing, thrusting
wildly into the receiving sky.

There are no small woodlands
animals yet to be seen, wary in
their dens. Several brown, striped
feathers lie in testimony to a recent
night-time drama that unfolded
with desperation never heard.

Uncaring buttercups and Solomon's
seal reveal their flowery presence.
Fleabane perkily blooms, and
cowvetch begins its strangling
summer devotional. Blue-eyed
grass blooms in great innocence.

Garden Residents

We have been entranced with
the insouciant appearance of
early spring garden stalwarts,
as hyacinths, daffodils, tulips,
crocuses and fritallaria gave way
to foamflower, bleeding heart,
bergenia, Jacks taking their place.

The procession of succession
brought magnolia, crabapple
blossoms, columbine, irises,
lilies-of-the-valley, lilacs
perfuming the air we breathe,
delighting us in their presence
of ephemeral, familiar visions.

Each day a new discovery, as
rhododendron, azaleas, quince,
phlox, bring butterflies, bees
and dragonflies to our very
personal Garden of Eden. Clematis
vines and honeysuckle cling to
walls and fences, and roses and
hydrangea bursting with vigour.

Promising flower buds eager to bloom,
enriched with nutrients of nature's
providing, conspiring between them
the orchestration of a theatrical
production to seize and abduct our
delirious senses equalled only in the
song of the cardinal, the robin, the
goldfinch - garden residents all.

My Tangled Garden

I've my own version of a wonderfully
realized tangled garden, equally colourful,
monumentally textured as A.Y. Jackson's
famous painting. While yet still spring
the warmth of the sun, this Valley's humidity
conspire with nature to urge all growing
things to green anarchic celebration.

Each of the trees, shrubs, bushes in my
beloved garden has a well developed
personality; to tamper with is to invite
dismayed rejection. Each flourishes
enthusiastically resistant to shaping,
containment or instruction to respect the
confines assigned, aspiring instead to
capturing area not their own.

Patiently, I have learned through long
observance to allow each its successive
celebration of bloom. And when their
conceit has been fulfilled, admirable
presence of colour and fragrance muted for
another year, out come the shears, the
pruners, the secateurs and order is restored.

Allowing yet another garden contingent
to declare prominence and clamouring
claim to admired presence, in a prolonged,
summer-long process of affecting need.

The Sky-Chugging Storm

It's a tame life we live; we accept
slight challenges and derive great
satisfaction in our small triumphs.
In the garden, the opportunities to
greet adversity with determined
actions are many, but of happy
moment to the intrepid gardener
thrilling to the immediate challenge.

The fragrance of damp soil, the
promise inherent in the effort to
aid sun and rain bring extravagant
colour shadings, varied architecture
and plush textures to prominent
garden features, drowning the
senses in deeply sensual bliss.

To thrust deeply into soil richly
composted, darkly crumbling with
growing nutrients, hosting burrowing
insects of the garden. A sense of
power and availment overwhelms.
The purpose: to move and transplant
faithful perennial clumps, and roses
to locations better suited to their
growing needs; to see them thrive.

This compels the action, impels the
change. The sky above is heavy with
dark clouds, the atmosphere cloying
with humidity, and one distant clap
after another gives ample warning
of imminent inundation. Nothing
deterred, the feverish digging proceeds
along with gentle removal and final
disposal, patting soil about the plant.

Lightning rents the clouds, sending
bright rods of energy and light
Earthward, counting down the arrival
of the sky-chugging storm whose
violent intent is deduced from the
ever-insurgent booms drumming the
sky, moving inexorably closer to the
target my garden has become.

It is nothing short of exhilarating
to race the storm. Perform the
penultimate transplant, calmly
proceed to the last as heavy drops
begin to lash the air. The final work
is done, warm, moist soil patted
into place, anchoring the plant.

One arm scoops my confused little
dog, the other my tools, for a mad
dash to the garden shed for tool
disposal. Deep breath, and the full
impact of the storm raging above,
thunder thumping the atmosphere,
light shafts renting the clouds, we
tear through the deck door, wet
and fulfilled, danger defied.

The Ambiance

Early morning streaked-dark clouds
obscuring the promise of this day did
not deter robins from their early
paeans, ringing the atmosphere with
sweet melody. The lassitude of the day
marked first by tepidly-falling showers
then the clouds, less obdurate
than thought, lifted, skimming the
lid of the sky and finally there
remained a pale, unchallenged blue.

The sun, free to arrest humidity
into a clear, dry balance for the day.
Nary the presence of wind, merely
a slight, relieving breeze to gently
part the fresh new green of ambient
trees. In the woods, the sharp
clear peal of a blue jay peels through
the arras of the surrounding forest.

Dragonflies filter about overflying a
lazily draining creek, while others
flitter above, through the branches
of trees, their bright green and blue
bodies caught in shafts of gilded sunlight.
On the forest floor, wild strawberries
bloom tight little white, yellow-centred
faces, among the starry ivory heads of
bunchberries, the lacy white fronds of
evanescently-fragrant lilies-of-the-valley.

A grackle flies, arrow-straight
beyond an ancient willow, its roots
entrenched deep within a placidly
ambling creek tributary. Within
the wide crotch of the splinter-barked
tree a squirrel waits patiently for
its quotidian treats. In the far distance
the faint clatter of a darkly imagined
concatenation of quarrelsome crows.

His Memories

His memories are of fond recollection,
those of a young boy awed with the
white-bearded presence of a grandfather,
attention to the hesitant curiosity of a
child. There, too, are memories of a
stoop-backed, pleated-faced grandmother,
forever offering hugs and proudly warm
glances, along with little saucers
dancing with raisins and almonds.

So unlike his own father and mother,
his grandparents, though stooped
with age, exuded kindness and charity.
His father, he knew, depended on what
he construed as his entitlement to
another type of charity, claiming constant
financial need, when none was there,
dismaying and threatening the frail pair.

When the young boy grew older, married,
he brought his young wife to visit the
wisps that remained of his grandparents;
worn with time and the efforts of
existence, their faded presence still dear
without peer. Finally, three young
children of his own, there was a funeral,
for two aged people, expired in tandem.

Long-lived, the ancient man and his wife
took their leave of the sons and daughters
they had borne and those countless others,
successive generations, expanding the
pair's tenuously-transparent existence.
Themselves once young, moving relentlessly
toward the finality of elderly presence.

The heirlooms of the old couple's time
as progenitors of a wide brood, their
heritage and values assumed and widely
acclaimed. Their worldly wealth, modestly
valuable, distributed among the cast of
men and women who owed their
existence to the now-dear departed.

Two unobtrusive, small items went
unclaimed. The grandmother's simple,
unadorned marriage ring removed at
death, not left for the burial. The
grandfather's cherished horn-carved,
translucent, ochre shaded snuffbox.
Of no value to the acquisitive hoard,
dividing between them items of value.

Offered, as a last resort, to the grandson
and gratefully accepted. That grandchild,
now looking back, as advanced in frail
years now as was once his grandfather.