Patchwork quilt journeys and lessons learned

It seems surreal to be sitting back in Malta on my favourite bench, enjoying the sound of the sea and blue skies above, after an absence of almost 3 months. Travelling leaves little time for writing. Family time must be savoured wholly not crammed in between tasks. At least when I travel that's the mode that seems to operate best for me.

Now I sit and digest the experience of the past months. Savouring time with my mum in Northern Ireland where the pace of life is slow. There is a focus on gardening, eliminating weeds and tending borders. Her home is ordered and tidy with even cupboard contents and drawers all lined up with military precision. There is a never-ending battle with dirt and grime but she has fought these foes for seven decades and has honed her techniques. I looked on in amazement as she tackles the tasks of the day. At almost 85 she does not measure her energy levels and recalibrates the duties of the day. No, she looks at the goals needing to be accomplished and just goes and goes until they are completed. Even if afterwards she has to collapse in her armchair, it is with a deep sense of satisfaction – her tasks completed.

I look on in amazement. I am not like this. A book, a thought, a walk comes into my orbit and I down tools, instantly distracted. My tidiness is purely superficial. Examine the cupboard or a drawer in my home and you will find evidence of the chaos that permeates this universe.

Perhaps my writing is also my chaos. This trip has fuelled a thousand thoughts but none of them fully formed. I'll share some of them in the hope that they will give a patchwork quilt of these months.

A close friend has spent weeks in a mountain house in southern France. Situated in an idyllic hamlet overlooking spectacular views, it has proved the perfect antidote to years in the Paris city centre. Normally hard-working and ever up to speed with the virtual world he has had to cope with no Wi-Fi. The shocking change of place and pace from a hectic dirty city to the silence of the hillside and the buzz of insects and happy birds. He took to whittling, carving odd-shaped wooden light sabres and became engrossed in moss removal from old stone flagstones.  Both, he told me were the pastimes of paradise. Interspersed with meals and coffee on the table positioned outside to soak up the views.  Reading books was the main entertainment and with what excitement did he share their contents. Afterwards, I sighed in remembrance of days past when a slower pace of life allowed us time to digest what we read. Not this fetid immediacy of media assault online. 

The permanent indigestion of too much input dulls the senses. It's good to be reminded of other times, other places, other ways.

My other joy during this trip was to spend time with my grandsons in England. After two months of endless rain all summer in Northern Ireland it was shocking to discover that Folkestone still had proper summers. Even in September, the sun shone and school kids wore shorts to school. As my son his wife both work in London, my mission this trip was to accompany my four-year-old grandson in his first three weeks of big school.  I also had his two-year-old brother to care for. It was somehow weird pushing a toddler in the buggy and holding the hand of a small school child again after three decades. Given that I hated school myself it was with some trepidation I took on this epic task. Fortunately, Charlie made the job much easier being almost eager to run through the school gates. Other parents or guardians had weeping youngsters to disengage from while Charlie never even looked back. He explained patiently to his younger brother that he was going to school and would be back in three hours to see him, so he was not to worry. Then he’d turn on his heel and scurry into school.

I was left with ample opportunity to notice the tears unshed in parents’ eyes as they faced this cruel test - the first separation. Some mothers stayed on, ages after the school gates had closed in case a familiar head appeared above the window ledge in the classroom.

One father had adopted a prolonged waving goodbye ritual to his daughter.  She was a  tiny fragile figure who waddled slowly and reluctantly towards the classroom door. He climbed the school gate so that she could still see him waving even from a distance. She would occasionally stop, shoulders slumped in apparent despair and turn to look back sadly at her dad. This would engender a huge arm waving movement and shouts of  “have a grand day Leanne, I love you!! “ Not easy to do, halfway up a six-foot metal gate. His forced good humour and bonhomie would end with her entering the classroom. Then, he'd suddenly be silent all emotion leaving his face. He would drop down from his perch on the gate and walk hastily away. It's hard for dads, mostly it is mothers at the school gates and they tend to chat in bunches with other mothers. Comparing notes on how first days at school are doing. Remembering coats, water bottles and school bags. Hugging their children, they reluctantly let them go.

Fathers tended to festoon children rather like preparing them for battle. School bag over head and shoulder, coat over the other arm as if supplying armaments for the day ahead.  I noticed one morning, an older boy (P3?) waiting for the school gates to open. A crowd of older students stood waiting impatiently laughing together.   The P3 student was tall for his age and had his foot on his scooter. Strange that they have come back into fashion those odd-looking contraptions from my childhood. 

As he waited, he rocked to and fro on the scooter. A little bit overweight with thick glasses he seemed absent-minded. He didn't even notice a group of mothers behind him waiting with the youngest children hand-in-hand, his scooter almost hit one mother behind him and she scolded him whispering disapprovingly to the other mothers beside her. Suddenly, the scooter slipped up the gate. Perhaps the pushing crowd put him off balance and he fell awkwardly landing full weight on top of his own scooter. The crowd stood back while he jumped to his feet, face almost against the gate not moving. It had been a bad fall and the scooter was damaged but we all stood as a fellow statues watching his ramrod still back. Then a huge builder type man pushed through the crowd and picked up the broken scooter and asked the boy, “Are you alright mate?”  Immediately the boy burst into tears of pain and the man put his hand on his shoulder and lead him away to the open area away from the crowd. After the children had rushed through the now opened gate into school, I spotted the father kneeling examining the damage to the scooter and talking soothingly with the P3 pupil.  I then realised the boy was not even his son. His own son, a small reception class pupil, was standing patiently beside his dad. I could see the older P3 boy was calmer now and all three of them walked together to the now deserted school gate. 

I felt rather ashamed that in that sea of mummies and grandmothers, including me,  it was a father who saw the hurt in that small straight back facing the gates and took decisive compassionate action. It is probably in such small deeds like this real education takes place for all of us.

“Regard man as a mine rich in gems of inestimable value. Education can, alone, cause it to reveal its treasures, and enable mankind to benefit therefrom.”

— BAHÁ’U’LLÁH

Nose picking, B.O. and lessons to be learned

Dennis was dead by his own hand and even as I digested the news, the thought bubbled unwanted into my mind that I had never liked him. We met in primary school in the playground and his favourite trick was to run as hard as he could into unexpected victims. Pushing or pulling he seemed not to mind if you cut a knee as you fell over, or bashed the back of your head on the curb. His main satisfaction was in felling others. It was something he just could not stop despite repeated beatings from our headmaster. He was refused to be weaned from his favourite pastime.

In my first day at school, Dennis wet himself. The Headmaster’s wife, Mrs Harris, raged and locked Dennis in the cupboard off her class where the sewing baskets were kept. There Dennis howled for the full two hours until break time while Mrs Harris lectured us all on bladder control. I'm not sure what the rest of the class learnt or Dennis but those two hours taught me that people with grey hair in buns wearing respectable expensive clothes could be vicious beasts deep in their hearts. Every cry of Dennis that soared over her demands, that we sit straight, remain silent and colour in our drawings, left me with a lifeline horror of colouring in. I knew with every crayon stroke that all of our souls were being coloured by the cruelty of that situation in ways that would linger for decades.

Perhaps the soft play dough of young children hearts makes every such event traumatic? Not that Dennis endeared himself to anyone. His spontaneous acts of violence continued unabated in the playground and even grew with each passing year. I complained to my father about his behaviour and he pointed out that Dennis was from a dysfunctional home. I had no idea what that meant but learned that Dennis was being brought up by his grandmother, an eccentric woman whose hair was as wild as her language. 

My father claimed our dog Monty could identify people with unusual tendencies. In their presence Monty would change from a placid ever good-natured Labrador into a barking aggressive hound. He wouldn't bite but barked as if a bear had entered the garden. Dennis's grandmother got by far the worst reaction from Monty and so I reckon dysfunctional was something dogs sensed that we humans had to guess at. It didn't make me dislike Dennis any less.

The headmaster Mr Harris would regularly throw Dennis over his shoulder and carry him out of the class after slapping him hard across the face and knocking him out of the school seat. Beating Dennis seem to be the main educational response to any misdemeanours.

He seemed to search for ways of annoying others. Not just by pushing but by laughing at other’s discomfort. A Kindergarten child was crying in the playground for her mother. She was tiny and vulnerable in this new world absent of parents. I overheard Dennis telling her she’d never see her mother again! That was what school meant. She was so distraught at this news she cried hysterically until she wet herself. At which point, Denis ran to tell Mrs Harris of the incident. Horrified we watched as this tiny girl was frogmarched into Mrs Harris’s dreaded cupboard as punishment. Her cries were far more tragic than Dennis’s as fear rather than humiliation fuelled their volume. I remember I broke four crayons that day pushing the nibs deep into my paper, digging into the white sheets in huge red stripes until they snapped. Why on earth do people think childhood was the happiest days of their lives? Was their childhood so good or what followed so awful in comparison?

In my last few years of primary school Mr and Mrs Harris retired and there were speeches of gratitude to these two monsters. Even the local MP came to sing their praises, mentioning their love of children and dedication to others. When Mr Harris died I remember the same MP weeping real tears copiously while reading a piece from the Bible during the service. I sat in church watching the whole pantomime, thinking what must God think of all this? None of it made any sense to me.  Not the cruelty, nor the adoration of abusers nor the incessant nose picking of Dennis who sat beside me during the service, stinking of BO. The horror of it all was mixed with the smell of pee, the memory of warm crayons between my fingers and bitter injustice burning in my belly.

Towards the end of primary school the girls all grew into giants while the boys remained the same height. At least, that's how it seemed to me. With only brothers at home I knew how to fight and dealt out  instant justice to those I felt due. Any time Dennis played his cruel games with kindergarten kids I’d hammer him. When he pushed others over I punched him hard. It never stopped him behaving badly but it made me feel good. As if at last I could play a role in fixing things. He became my pet project for world betterment. I couldn't control Mr and Mrs Harris but I would try with Dennis.  To his credit he never held any grudges against me. I think he was beaten so badly by adults all round him he viewed our exchanges as just rough child's play. At times, on some strange level, we were close. I watched out for him in the playground and rather than resenting my interference he felt a bond that I was ashamed was one-sided.   

In the secondary school, he attended, my mother taught him Maths.  She used to bring a complete clean uniform, shirt, tie, blazer trousers, socks and pants to school for him each day.  Whenever, he had an accident she would bring him the clean set, from her room, to change into.  Two years into secondary school the wetting stopped but she continued to supply him with new clean clothes when his own were unclean. 

We went our separate ways then, Dennis and I. His grandmother was still a visitor to our home occasionally and treated with good humour. On a family outing, with her in the car, I can remember my father parking outside a huge palace of a house with elegant rhododendrons on either side of the drive. He managed to convince her that his relatives lived inside this massive mansion. She was impressed beyond words and later when he told her he’d only been joking she roared with laughter that was too loud and too long.

Years later, Dennis joined the police. My mother was stopped by the police one night in the Glenshane pass. The officer that peered through the window was Dennis. She said he looked smart and proud in his neat new uniform. He had thanked her that night for her maths lessons in secondary school and told her she'd been his favourite teacher. Dennis we learned even had a girlfriend. Then, out of the blue she dumped him for someone else. 

On a rainy night in his new car, high in the mountains, near our village, he put his police revolver to his head and blasted his life away.  When I heard the news I felt a physical ache within. His ex-girlfriend went on to marry three other men in the years ahead, breaking more hearts no doubt in the process. I wished he had been able to know she wasn't worth it. Not worth one second of the life that should've been his. Too many young men seem to take their own lives in despair and betrayal. Alone in the dark their anger turns inwards with no other bond to hold them in this world.

Dennis had really tried. He'd come through so much in his short life. None of us had ever really understood him. I still hear his cry from the cupboard and can only pledge to be more kind to the souls around me. Some journeys are so tough you can't imagine or know how bereft of love and kindness such lives can be.  If we did, I hope we’d all be different to each other.

Getting over hurdles and not under them

It was the opening of the Baha’i terraces on Mount Carmel in Haifa in May 2001. Only 19 would be chosen from each country to attend. My sons were both teenagers in Greece at the time and were lucky enough to both be chosen. Youth were a priority and hence their selection for this wonderful event. As always with such great opportunities comes great challenges. My husband was knocked off his scooter and fractured his back entailing hospitalisation and months of recovery. The second setback was as the boys were under age they could not travel alone and would need to have a guardian appointed to travel with them. Fortunately, our dear friend Ursula from Rhodes volunteered to be their guardian as she was also one of the 19 representing the Greek Baha’i community. This was a blessing as both boys loved Ursula so much and I could not think of a better guardian then this elderly tiny spiritual giant of a woman. Anyway, the British consul on the island had to sign the guardian consent forms as well as my husband and myself. Unfortunately, as my husband was in hospital and the form had to be signed by everybody involved at the same time, the only way to achieve this was for all to arrange to meet in my husband’s ward and to sign there. The British consul staff informed me that there was a considerable charge for this service. I was shocked at the amount. It far exceeded anything reasonable. I proceeded to have a very heated discussion with them during which I, in very forthright terms, told them exactly what I thought of their attempting to rip-off British subjects when abroad and hospitalised. Having never contacted them in a decade while living on the island I was less than impressed and ended the conversation by telling them to get stuffed. Not a wise move when the clock was ticking on getting this guardian form signed and legal before flights departed. 

Without this form they could not travel. Fortunately, I am a citizen of more than one country and so I turned to the Irish consul who turned out to be a likeable competent person whose services were provided at an unbelievably reasonable cost. All was signed and legal, so I did not have to turn to my third citizenship and contact the Canadian consul! Such is the weirdness of being brought up in Northern Ireland. I am entitled to both Irish and British passports and because my parents emigrated to Canada for two years, during which I was born, I am also a Canadian passport holder. You know it pays to have as many passports as you can possibly acquire!

It it seemed as if we had cleared all the hurdles when the boy’s school flagged up yet another major one. The opening of terraces coincided with the end of year Greek school exams and they were informed that if they missed their exams they would have to repeat their entire school year again! We discussed it as a family and both boys agreed they would rather miss the exams and repeat the entire school year then lose out on this special trip. They went to the school to meet with their headmaster and headteacher to explain. I didn't envy them explaining the event, their Baha’i Faith to a school dominated by the Greek Orthodox religion. When they returned from the meeting the tale they told was surprising indeed. 

After explaining the event and their desired attendance the boys informed the headmaster and headteacher of their willingness to repeat the year because of missing the end of year exams. The headmaster and teacher talked among themselves for a while and then suggested a way forward. They said that repeating year could be avoided if a note was sent in saying the boys were sick on the days of the missed exams. Both men were rather pleased at finding a clever way to avoid the boys having to repeat the whole school year. This time it was my two sons who conferred with each other as to how to respond. Their decision was - they weren't prepared to lie to go to a Baha'i event, it didn’t seem right. I don't know what the headmaster felt about this unexpected response but he suddenly decided that they could go to Haifa and would not have to tell a lie or repeat the year. Our next door neighbour who was a teacher at the school told us the headmaster had been floored by their youthful integrity. They had a fantastic trip.  It was one of those wonderful life affirming events for them both.  Sometimes out of the midst of unexpected challenges we learn not only about ourselves but also the hidden depths of others. 

Owl Puke

Well it has been a week of discoveries!

For example today I was rounding up my two-week science teaching of middle school lab work with a video of the barn owl.  We have been covering body systems and had started with the skeleton.  Much making of full sized black cardboard skeletons with labelled bones tied together with wool or paperclips.  In fact my entire science lab resembles a bizarre Hallowen celebration with many of the black shapes running on the walls, spread-eagled on corridors or waving frantically from a board in the classroom.  We then moved on to dissecting an owl pellet.  It was tricky justifying the expense of purchase of owl vomit in these economically challenging times, but I got it.  As owls cannot digest the bones, feathers and fur of their prey they vomit it up in these pellets so I reckoned that would be a creative way to allow them to pull all the bones out and reconstruct the victims of the owl.  Various parts of rodents, voles, birds, shrews etc were all carefully extracted from these solid lumps and then separated out into piles of each respective animal.  The lab echoed to excited cries of  “I’ve got a skull here!”, or “This is a pelvis of a rat” and they grew expert at identifying shrew skulls because the tips of their teeth are red.  Tweezers and heads bent over dead piles of bones has been our points of interest for some time and now all bones have been stuck on black card board and identified.  The corridors have been full of conversations like, “what did you find in your owl puke?”  After all these experiences I decided to close the topic with a series of videos showing owls vomiting up their owl pellets, in flight catching prey and finally one of an owl swallowing a huge rat.  So it was with complete despair, while watching them, I heard a group of students crying out, “that is so gross, what is that lump coming out of its mouth?” or comments to that effect.  At which point, several of the brighter students turned and exasperatedly pointed out that we had been dissecting owl pellets all week and of course that was what these were.  Several students looked green around the gills that they had been rummaging around in these horrid looking turds and were outraged.  At this point all my satisfaction about my lesson plans and lab work drained away.  I should have remembered when you take kids into labs a part of their brains switches off and goes into a sort of “Bunsen burner, test-tube, chemical, mesmerised state” that closes down all rational thought.  If I entered the lab and began a strange witch doctor ritual with feathers and skinned rabbits around my head it would make no difference.  You can tell, when they approach you in the lab and ask, “can we blow something up next week?”  Everything but explosions to sixth grade is a complete waste of a lab session.  Here is the owl video, be patient – it is taken by amateurs discussing their camera storage capacity.

But for me the most beautiful part is watching these birds in flight – this is 6 minutes long so don’t feel you have to watch it but there is something angelic about their flight in slow motion that grabs me.  Okay the last part is fairly gross!

It is all a learning experience.  From the sublime to the ridiculous, this life.  One minute you think you are running exciting educational science experiments the next you realize it really is just all vomit.  There is a metaphor about life in that last line.  Education is just about regurgitating stuff and life usually involves vomit for some reason!

Did you survive school unscarred?

From an old fax sent to home from Rhodes, Greece.  Apologies to any mistakes in my grammar – how I ended up teaching English with my spelling I never really understood.


Only lost my temper once today, while teaching.  One boy could not understand the difference between gradable and ungradable adjectives.  I explained quite clearly, I thought, “If I say you are a very stupid boy, or not very handsome, or a little foolish, these are all gradable.  But, if I call your English incomprehensible, unspeakable, ghastly there is no need to grade these words so they are ungradable.”  It was a lovely opportunity to insult him.  What a dastardly teacher I am.  Speaking of teachers, Daniel had a run in with his teacher in primary school here in Greece.  She called me in to see her as Daniel had snatched his book back from her last week.  In punishment she had decided to ignore him completely in the class for three days, even when he put his hand up.  Now, she wanted to talk to me because Daniel did not seem at all bothered about being ignored.  He hadn’t even told me!  Anyway, she said she’d been very upset all weekend and wanted Daniel to apologise.  I spoke to him and he was devastated he’d hurt her feelings and cried in his bedroom.  He apologised and she kissed him.  Imagine a teacher not speaking, sulking for three days.  It is almost as bad as using the English language to insult annoying students.   My question is how do any of us survive school unscarred?