Thank you Mr. Murray. November 23 2013

TheApprenticeshipOfDuddyKravitzI remember Mr. Murray well. Designated as our homeroom teacher, the grade 11 class regarded him warily. Perhaps it was the ascot knotted at his throat, unusual apparel for a Nova Scotia fishing town. Or it may have been his pasty skin, the unwell appearance of an unhealthy person, wearily moseying along the road of life.. nearer to the end than the beginning. Every movement he made was languid. I remember the class atmosphere as whispery, as if we were all in a hospital waiting room. It was instinctive that we felt compelled to best behavior.

He taught us English studies. I loved to listen to him speak about the characters in the stories we studied. He had a lovely way of shaping words. One instance, I cannot remember the name of the book, he stated how over dramatized and “gushy” it was, and that any minute we could expect violin music emerging from the bushes, highly unlikely in the circumstances. We were encouraged to envision it. The girls giggled, the boys rolled their eyes. His danced merrily.

My Father was a religious zealot. He was quite firm on what literature his children should have access to. It was with a sinking heart that I brought home the designated reading for the semester. Of course it had to be “The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz” by Canadian author Mordecai Richler, newly minted, off the presses and reallllly controversial. My Teacher was that kind of man. Controversial. My father was angry and impetuous. Pulling open the stove lid, he thrust the book into the flames, and slammed it shut. No child of his was going to read that garbage!

I was a nervous child. It was not easy living with a Father that talked directly to God. Unfortunately, neither he nor God accompanied me to school to explain the situation to my teacher. Approaching his desk, I gathered all of the little courage I had, and I told him my story.

I must explain here that I am an eye watcher. Eyes say everything, especially in unguarded moments. I can read even the faintest twitch of untruth. My children despise me for it. I remember his eyes that day as they changed from curiosity to interest in my story and then to pain. No anger, I was used to anger. Smiling sadly, he stated that he would give me another assignment. “I want you to write an essay “he said.” I want you to write about Success. Tell me all you can learn about Success.”

Then turning to the class, he called it to order. Pulling an armload of envelopes out of his satchel, he proceeded to hand them round to each student. “ I am going to teach you something that will be the most important information you will ever need to know as you venture out into the world. I am going to show you how to fill out Income Tax forms.” We spread them out on our desks, rolled up our sleeves and got to work.

I wrote my essay on Success. I do not remember much of what it said or the mark I received. I left for another school at the end of the term. I heard that Mr. Murray did not return the next year either. After a I graduated I got a job. I got married. I felt the most happy feeling each year as I got out those forms and filled them out because I had the knowledge my husband didn’t have yet. I felt needed. As the years past and the taxes became more intricate, I willingly passed them over to our tax man.

Oh yes…One quote I do remember is “Success is not the key to happiness. Happiness is the key to success. If you love what you are doing, you will be successful. “~Albert Schweitzer

BTW I picked up the forbidden book later in life. Funny thing, it is a story about a young man desperately determined to be successful. And he wasn’t. Thank you Mr. Murray.


Why my Husband dislikes winter. November 16 2013

horses and sleigh


Each year my husband reminds me how much he dislikes winter.Each year he tells the story of how, even as a small babe, the weekly ritual of church attendance was never forsaken.

Born to a Mennonite prairie farm family, not even bad weather could allow you to feel free to worship God under the covers of your cozy homemade feather tick comforter… and there was a dinner invitation to honor. Prairie women laid fantastic tables.

This particular Sunday morning, snow was piled along the lane like fat marshmallows. His Dad realized that the car would not make it through the drifts,so the team of horses were pressed into service and hitched to the sleigh stored in the barn for such occasions as this.

Wrapped in horse blankets with only noses peaking out, they glided the two miles to the small village church accompanied by the jingle of harnesses and horse nose blowing sounds.  My husband was only a small infant, wrapped in his mother’s arms, warmed by her body. Dad ‘s voice prodded the horses to pick up the pace as they were late for service.


Church was in full swing when the sleigh drew up along a side drift, causing it to slide sideways. When the runner hit the bottom, the sleigh tipped on its side pitching all the family, two sisters, Mom and Dad out into the snow in front of the church. According to his sister’s recount , my husband fell out of mother’s arms and rolled a bit in the snow, much to everyone’s mortification. He has always wondered what his father said at that moment. He was not one for bad language, at least not outwardly.  

To add to their embarrassment the congregation had chosen to rise, probably for singing, and were watching from the windows.  If it had been prayer everyone’s would eyes would have been shut and they would have missed the entertainment. Fortunately concerned members ran to their aid and righted the sleigh, dusting off everyone, no damage done, except a few jokes about Dad’s driving. This, my husband says was the beginning of his dislike of winter.