Those cold prison walls
Perhaps I can blame the weather. Rain, with risk of freezing. Removed the snow, again. And the grey shies brought back memories. Of school.
My middle years were spent in a parochial school. We had moved from a completely secular system to one in the next province. Grades IV, V, VI and VII. Roman numerals, reflect the discipline of moving into single grade classes, after my beginning time in a room with five levels across five rows.
I can remember the building, because it could easily have been used as the setting for a Victorian factory. Grey-green walls, hardwood floors, narrow stairwells. Except for grade V. We were given an exterior option. Metal fire escape. It shook in the wind. And the rain. And our climb upwards to wait for that big exterior door to swing open. Yes, we were frightened, and that might have been the reason. Oddly, we did have indoor plumbing, down in the basement after a trek down those narrow stairwells. I do not know why we couldn’t use the stairs for ordinary activities. Like entering and leaving, several times a day. Our outdoor life was one of a playground where we lined up, over and over again. Dark times.
Clearly, I survived. For Grade 8, increased enrollment saw my class expelled to the outside world of the new public junior high school, a good distance away. And I only returned to my “prison” one time, many years later, the see my old teacher and thank her. She was good at her job for the record, we called her Muscles, and we had no discipline issues.
