I have two enduring memories of Junior School. The first is of Day One when Mr. Stucky, our teacher, introduced his students to a display case mounted on the wall behind him. It contained an array of canes, each of which had a name which he gleefully recited as he lovingly flexed them, one by one. I don\u2019t remember their names, but I do remember a fervent desire not to come into physical contact with any of them. Happily, I didn\u2019t, nor do I recall anyone else suffering that misfortune; his class was very orderly.<\/p>\n
My second memory is of my last year of Junior School under the gentle ministrations of Miss George, a young lady who, my mother informed me, was soon to marry and become Mrs. Something Else. Miss George had no canes. She did have hands, though, and when she thought a student deserved their application, she would slap him repeatedly on the thigh.<\/p>\n
I had at an early age adopted an air of studied insouciance towards matters that others told me were of great import but which I found of little interest; hence, I sat at the back of the class and tended not to listen to her. One thing does stick in my mind: after waxing eloquent on the conquering of Mount Everest by Edmund Hillary,\u00a0 she looked at me and said: \u201cLook at Jenkins in the back, there \u2013 he is in a constant state of Everest.\u201d I couldn\u2019t argue with the observation.<\/p>\n
At one point my curiosity overcame my desire to be left alone in peace. Miss George had a special inkwell. We all had inkwells, but hers, so rumour had it, was immune to spills: no matter how far you tipped it, the ink would not come out. I had to test this. One day, when Miss George was out of the room, I boldly went to her desk and tipped the inkwell upside down: red ink spilled everywhere. When she returned, I experienced for the first time the sensation of being a Sinner in the Hands of an Angry God.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe person who did it Must Own Up\u201d, she said. \u201cBut I don\u2019t want anyone Telling Stories.” We all knew that being a snitch was Bad.<\/p>\n
I owned up. She made me clean it up. I spilled more ink trying to clean it, but Miss George was merciful, and I was spared The Hand.<\/p>\n
Things are different now. We are all encouraged to tell stories<\/em> and no one particularly cares whether they bear any relation to what is true: all that matters is that is that we experience<\/em> them as true. Objective reality is irrelevant.<\/p>\n I think I prefer Miss George\u2019s version of Telling Stories, Hand and all.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I have two enduring memories of Junior School. The first is of Day One when Mr. Stucky, our teacher, introduced his students to a display case mounted on the wall behind him. It contained an array of canes, each of … Continue reading