The most traumatic trip of my life, or so it seemed then, was when I had to go to school for the first time. I was determined that I was not going, but unfortunately, I had an even more determined mother. At that time our town still had wooden sidewalks. I dug my heels in every space between the planks while mother literally yanked and dragged me the four blocks to school. It was a losing battle, and despite my screams, wrigglings, and pleas for mercy we finally reached that dreadful, intimidating red-brick building that was to be my prison.

I have some vague recollections of that first and subsequent days. I remember the teacher welcoming me into the class. Much to my surprise and relief she did not have horns and a tail as I had imagined, but instead was very pleasant and kind. I remember the bright, sunny classroom, the rows and columns of desks, the blackboard, and the smell of chalk and pencils. I was assigned to a desk and given two books¾a reader and a speller. The teacher gave me a list of things I had to buy: scribbler, pencil, crayons, eraser and ruler.

Hardly any time had passed before a bell rang and we all marched out of the room and outside. I thought to myself, "Hey, this isn't so bad. I can live with these hours," and I streaked home. No one had told me about recess. My freedom was short-lived because once again my mother dragged me to school. Subdued, sad, and apprehensive I sat at my assigned desk. Thanks to Miss Matheson's patience and understanding, I was soon made to feel at ease and I got to know the rules about recess, lunch time, and hours of arrival and dismissal. Later in the term I was appointed as a brush monitor which meant that I had the privilege of banging the brushes together to dislodge the chalk dust. Looking back, I wonder how much of a privilege it was to be surrounded by a cloud of choking dust. Probably the teachers made it appear as a coveted privilege so that they would not have to do it. I now refer to it as the Tom Sawyer whitewash syndrome. But con job or not, we loved it.

School life settled into more or less of a routine. We had to obey rules such as not running in the halls, not teasing the girls, making sure we put things back where they belonged, etc. Each morning as the teacher walked in, we stood by our desks singing "Good morning to you." Then we had to extend our hands while the teacher walked up and down to inspect them and our necks to ensure that we had washed properly. This was training in hygiene.

In Grade Three an event of major proportions occurred. We were lined up along the wall by our classrooms waiting for the bell to ring so that we could enter. One of the kids pointed to a red handle on the wall just above our heads and asked me to pull it. Being still rather naive, I did so. Immediately a loud bell rang and teachers were swarming everywhere. We were herded into our classrooms and through an exit door which led to a fire escape. In those days schools had large cylinders next to the building with spiral slides inside so that classrooms on all floors could be evacuated quickly. After going through this exercise we waited outside while teachers ran about like ants from a disturbed anthill asking one another questions and ensuring that all the kids were accounted for. After a while we were led back to our classrooms. Then the teacher asked, "Has anyone pulled the fire alarm handle?"

Suddenly and with a sickening feeling, I realized that I had caused the whole school to empty by pulling that little red handle. I put up my hand thinking about reform school and eating bread and water for the rest of my life. The teacher simply said, "All right class, just remain in your seats while I leave the room for a few minutes."

During her absence the rest of the class looked at me with awe and admiration. Realizing that I was the centre of attention, I lost my apprehension and started smiling and bowing to my appreciative audience. At that precise moment the teacher re-entered the room, and when she saw what I was doing, vengeance descended swiftly.

"Sammy, you come with me!" I was marched down that last long mile to the principal's office in a state of terror and trepidation. After hearing my explanation he gave me a stern lecture making me aware that I had placed the school in danger and making me promise not do anything like that again. Then he told me to put out my right hand palm up. He administered three smart raps with the long thick leather strap that was used in days gone by as a symbol of order and discipline. Then he gave me three more on the left hand. I have often wondered whether they were called smart raps because they made our hands smart or because they helped to instill some degree of wisdom. In any event I had learned a lesson and was smart enough not to get into trouble like that again. I learned too that school was not for students to learn just the three R's. There were three more important R's: respect, responsibility, and rules.