Norma Collis's Blog

My years as a teacher/librarian brought me many different experiences and memories.
I remember with great fondness one little kindergarten boy who was a frequent visitor to the school library. He was an extremely bright child and his teacher was often at a loss as to how to keep him actively engaged in the kindergarten program. He rapidly completed any extra work she prepared for him.
The idea of moving him on into grade one was quickly vetoed by his parents.
They knew that he needed to remain with his peer group as his emotional maturity did not match his intelligence level.
"He is just a little boy" reasoned his mother. He needs to have the opportunity to interact with other children his own age.
His mother was working hard with him to help him to realize that it was not always the best idea to correct people, especially adults, even if he was correct and they were not.
It was decided that the school library should provide the extra enrichment that he required and that he should be allowed to go to the library whenever the need arose.
One day, I was shelf reading while awaiting the arrival of my next class . The kindergarten child came into the library.
"What 'ya doin?" he asked.
I explained that every book had an address on its spine. That address showed exactly where the book should live on a library shelf.
Your house has a number and many of these books have a number to show where they live.
"I think I can do that." said my young reader.
Knowing that he loved dinosaurs and all things prehistoric, I asked him if he would like to take responsibility for keeping this section in proper order. This was a very big assignment as this section was one of the most used areas in the library.
I might be in the middle of teaching a lesson or reading a story to a group, when my young paleontologist would quietly enter the room.
He would make his way over to his area of responsibility and then a small voice could be heard exclaiming "Now who has been using my dinosaur section?" With lightning speed the books would be restored to their proper order. This was achieved along with a running commentary from the young shelf reader.
"No, Mr. Brontosaurus, you know that is not where you live. T Rex how many times have I had to put you back in your spot?Where are all the books on Triceratops? There were lots of them here yesterday.?"
My parent volunteers would watch in open mouthed amazement. "Who is this kid?" they would ask after he had left the library.
I have lost track of my young bibliophile over the years. I often imagine him as a professor at a prestigious university. I see him entering the huge library there, clad in his tweed jacket with the suede elbow patches. I see him approaching a shelf and then he exclaims "Sigmund Freud! What are you doing here on this shelf?Stop being a nonconformist and get back to your proper shelf immediately!"

When i was very young, my father was the minister at a church in a very small town.
There was a kind and lovely lady who sang in the church choir. She never ever sang a solo until....
the Christmas service.
With carefully coifed hair ,and the appropriate
reverential look on her face, the soloist would
get to her feet and then clasp her hands over her heart and just above her generously sized
bosom. After the appropriate lead in, played on
the church pipe organ, the good woman would
begin to deliver her version of "Oh Holy Night."
This carol is a particularly difficult piece of music.
It changes register part way through and the high notes are at a very high pitch indeed.
The good lady would bravely launch into the
song, swooping up to the high notes, which she was just shy of reaching and always singing the entire piece slightly off key.
The congregation stoically sat through all of the verses and the repeated chorus. It was a memorable and for my sister and I, quite painful event.
Every December, in anticipation of the inevitable performance, my sister and I would walk around our house, clutching our hands over our hearts and above our nonexistent bosoms and we would sing "Oh Holy Night." We would swoop up to the high notes and we would make sure to deliver the hymn in all of its' off key glory.
"Don't you dare look at me up in the pulpit while she is singing!" my father would demand. Each year we would obey him and quietly examine our feet while the interminable song rolled on. I would look at my feet. Then I would examine my sisters' feet and she would return
the compliment.
I think everyone in our family breathed a sigh of relief when the seasonal ordeal was completed for that year.
To this day, I can feel myself tense up when I hear the opening strains of "Oh Holy Night" being played. My husband, knowing the back story, will lean over and whisper in my ear "Oh good, it's "Oh Holy Night coming up."
I spend the ensuing time examining my feet as I imagine that good lady, who has now passed on , entertaining some long-suffering , but very supportive heavenly angels, with her own special and unique rendition of the song "Oh Holy Night."
I hope the angels raise their voices in a heavenly chorus to assist the good lady in reaching those high notes and above all else, to make sure that this glorious piece of music is delivered in the proper key right through to the final crescendo.

From a very young age, the best gift I could ever receive, was a new picture book for my personal library.
My Grandma Lynes, who lived in the town of Norwich Ontario, was one of my top contributors. Her name was Mable, and her second name was Maude.
My Dad's mother, who lived on a farm outside of town was named Maude.
I dubbed them "Grandam Maude" and "Grandma Mable Maude."
The double name was a source of great amusement to my "in town" Grandma.
We often stayed with my "in town" Grandma for several days at a time. When the rest of the family went out to the farm to visit Grandma Maude, I always opted to stay in town with Grandam Mabel Maude.
I loved our afternoon ritual of tea for two. I was served "milky tea" which was mainly milk with a dash of tea added to it. I also knew that sometime during the afternoon, Grandma Mable Maude would say "Come Norma. we are going to walk downtown." Grandma had some mobility issues and used a cane.
Although she lived just two blocks from downtown Norwich, the journey was a slow one. She often told me that she liked walking with me because i stayed right beside her and didn't skip on ahead.
Grandma would keep up a running commentary about the houses we passed and about who lived there.
We also passed by the Norwich public library which was another very familiar Andrew Carnegie style edifice.
I didn't know who this
Carnegie fellow was , but I was sure he must be a very good person if he had built so many libraries in every little town that I knew.
Our walk always ended at the town pharmacy. It was located on a street corner, and I was
intrigued by the entrance door that was set at an angle to the corner of the road. Although no longer a pharmacy, that building is still there and that angled doorway continues to interest me.
While Grandma gossiped with the pharmacist and his assistant, i was turned loose in the part of the store that held a rack of "Little Golden Books."
"Choose one that you really love, and I will buy it for you." said Grandma.
Only one book? Decisions, decisions.
No matter how long I considered the wondrous possibilities, Grandma patiently waited for me.
At long last the choice was made, and my new book was purchased.
We began the long walk home as I carefully clutched the newest addition to my personal library.
Once home, we enjoyed our "milky tea time' which was followed by "story time."
I would snuggle up to Grandma Mable Maude as she read my newest book to me.
Story time was always followed by an afternoon nap ,for both of us.
With a "literary" start in life like that, how could one not grow up loving books and longing to be an author herself?
My parents also read to me every night at bedtime. They were busy people but somehow, one of them always made space for this special time of day.
In later years, my mother told me that she knew when I was about to drop off to sleep. She would purposely mix up the words of a much loved story. If I corrected her and told her what the words should be, she knew she would be a reading to me for another 15 minutes or so.
If I failed to correct the literary "misread", she knew that I would be fast asleep in about two minutes.
Grandma Mable Maude and my parents are all gone now but I truly believe they know that I am fulfilling my dream and that I am now an author.
It makes me smile when one of my readers tells me that they read a chapter of one of my books just before falling asleep for the night.
It makes me happy to know that the tradition of "bedtime" stories continues.

Every Yuletide season, my Dad's side of the family took turns hosting a big family Christmas dinner and an evening of fun .This always took place during the school Christmas break. All of his family lived in the Norwich/Woodstock area so when we moved to nearby Tillsonburg, it was our turn to host this big event. I should add that my dad was a minister and he had accepted an appointment at a very beautiful Tillsonburg church called St. Paul's United. We lived next door in the manse, which was an equally beautiful Victorian style home.
Most years there were 23 of us in attendance at the big family event. 12 of these attendees were children. Every year ,my Grandma Taylor would request that we kids put on a "concert" for her.
Dressed in our seasonal finery, we did our best to please her, presenting well rehearsed solos, piano pieces and funny poems.
We had finished our command performances and the " younger natives were getting restless."
Sensing that rambunctious behavior was about to unfold, my Dad suggested that he take us next door to the church gym where we could, hopefully ,run off some of our energy. This plan worked for a short while until one of the cousins said that they thought it would be fun to see more of the church building.
My sister, who was the oldest of the cousins, led the way. When we entered the circular sanctuary, everyone was most impressed .
That year, it had been decided to set up interior spotlights showcasing the magnificent stained glass windows. This light show made the windows visible to anyone passing by on the street outside. To add to the season, the large pipe organ had been set up with a public address system. Each evening at 7pm the organist played Christmas Carols for half an hour. The music rang out over the town setting the perfect mood for the days leading up to the "big day".
An older cousin, was a very accomplished pianist. At a young age, she had earned awards of merit from the Toronto Royal Conservatory of Music. "I want to play that pipe organ" she said. "I know how to do it." Saying this, she flipped on the switches and we waited for the behemoth instrument to warm up. Now she could have performed something like Minuet in G major or The moonlight Sonata by Beethoven, however, this was not to be.
"Hold on to your hats" she said and she began to "rock out" a piece of music that took us a while to recognize as an old favorite, well known around the world.
Eleven cousins were all lined up on a front pew "moving and grooving " to the music, when my Dad came charging into the sanctuary.
He was a man who rarely raised his voice but he bellowed "Stop that right now!!!"
Unbeknownst to us, my cousin, as well as switching on the power to the organ, had also powered up the public address system.
The entire little town of Tillsonburg, was now experiencing the rock version of......Chopsticks.
Even my Grandma, who was usually thrilled with displays of musical talent from her grandchildren, was less than impressed with our attempt to provide a lively, and very public encore to that years family talent show.

Before my dad's job brought our family to Tillsonburg, we lived in the small town of Fergus.
Fergus was very much a "Company town". Most of the town citizens either worked on the factory floor at Beatty Brothers Limited, or they worked as management in the front offices of this highly successful family business.
Beatty brothers was a major manufacturer of agricultural machinery, barn and stable equipment plus household appliances. Founded in 1874 the company was, by the time we lived in Fergus, under the management of George and Matthew Beatty.
George Beatty was the inventor and he was responsible for the development of the first automated barn cleaning machines. He was also responsible for making the automatic washing machine popular in Canada as he had invented the agitator for these machines.
As a preschooler, I thought of Mr. George Beatty as a kindly and grandfatherly type of man.
Every Sunday, if the Beatty family was in town, they occupied the front pew at Fergus Melville United Church. If the Beatty family were not in attendance, no one else sat in that pew. A gold plated plaque was fastened to the end of that pew. There could be no mistake made as to who that front seat belonged to.
I found the Church services rather lengthy, so I was allowed to use a pencil and a small notebook in which to draw. I was fascinated by the various styles of ladies hats that were worn to the services each Sunday.
I spent my time drawing these hats. I was a firm believer that if a little decoration on a hat was good, an abundance of adornments was even better. I cheerfully added fruit, flowers and tall feathers to my hat designs,
Each Sunday, following the service, Mr. Beatty would seek me out and ask to see my newest renderings of hats. He would study each one carefully, ask me a few questions as to my design decisions, and then select 1 picture that he wished to keep, I had visions of my elaborate hat pictures, decorating the walls of this fine man's office.
One Christmas eve, I was tucked up in bed, having left out the obligatory cookies, milk and
reindeer carrots along with my carefully dictated letter to Santa.
I was just drifting off to sleep when I heard our front doorbell ring. This was followed by the murmuring of an elderly mans' voice.
"Oh my goodness" I thought "It's Santa Claus,. He had to ring the doorbell because we had a fire in the fireplace earlier in the evening,"
"Santa!" I yelled as I raced down the stair.
"No, not Santa" replied a very familiar voice "But I did bring you a present."
There was Mr. Beatty with a carefully wrapped gift, and it was for me.
Inside the wrapping, was a miniature metal, folding ironing board.
Mr. Beatty had designed this prototype to replace the heavy and awkward wooden boards that were standard issue in every household.
The factory was adding the manufacture of metal ironing boards to their production line.
Every year after that, Mr. Beatty would remind me, with a smile and a chuckle, of the time when I thought he was Santa Claus. He seemed to be very pleased that I had made this mistake about who he was.
In later years, as a young adult, I learned that he was a kind-hearted and generous boss to all of his many employees.
I think, Mr. Beatty was a true Santa Claus, in every sense of the word.

When I was preschool age, my father's job took us to the small town of Fergus Ontario.
Once we were settled ,my sister, who was 6 years older than I, decided that she wanted to visit the town library and apply for a library card.
My Mother walked us down the steep hill from our new home, and into downtown Fergus.
The Public Library was situated in the heart of the main street and it was housed in a lovely old Andrew Carnegie designed brick building .I can still remember the smell of the place, as we entered through the large front .That aroma smelled of promises. I was in awe as I gazed up at the rows of tall bookshelves, crammed with every size and color of book imaginable.
My sense of wonderment soared, when the kindly librarian, Mrs.Blythe, pointed us in the direction of the children's section. One whole side of the place was dedicated to children. It looked like "Heaven on earth" to me.
I carefully made my selection of items that I wished to borrow and confidently approached the charging desk where my sister was filling out her application form.
Mrs.Blythe looked at me and then at the carefully chosen books I was carrying.
"Oh my dear" she said. "Children who have not yet started school are not allowed to borrow books."
I was mystified.
"Why not?" I asked her.
"Well" she replied "You might rip the pages or even color in the book."
I was scandalized and highly insulted. I had a large collection of my own books at home. Not even once had I ever considered defacing those cherished tomes.
My sister generously offered to borrow my selections using her own brand new, shiny yellow card.
That was a kind gesture , but I did not feel the same level of excitement and anticipation that I had felt when I first entered those large and impressive library doors.
Seeing my crestfallen face, Mrs. Blythe reached under the large charging desk and brought out several elderly picture books that were about to be weeded from the collection.
"You may have these to keep, if you like." she offered. I was thrilled.
The books still had borrowers' cards and pockets in the back of each volume.
I went home and gathered up my own large collection of books. My Dad supplied me with old envelopes from his own correspondence. I cut the envelopes in half and carefully glued them into the back of each book. My sister helped me make borrowers, cards from file cards, also supplied by my bemused father.
I arranged all of my "Holdings" on my bedroom bookshelves and declared that my library was open for business. I added that anyone of any age would be allowed to borrow items from my library. This offer was even extended to babies.
My customer base largely consisted of my dolls and teddy bears. The library was open 24/7.
Mrs. Blythe continued to supply me with discards and my library expanded.
On the day that I started kindergarten, I made two very important announcements.
#1 I was done with afternoon naps.
#2 Could someone in the family please go with me downtown as I had very important business at the town library.

We were preparing for the start of another school year at the middle school where I was the teacher librarian plus grade 8 language arts teacher.
Quite unexpectedly I was handed a new history/language arts curriculum that included the study of World War 1.
Up to that point, this topic was studied in secondary school. My teachers' training had taught me that no true learning takes place until the students are able to connect concepts taught, to real life applications and experiences.
"Ok, how do I help my 13 and 14 year old students make sense of this one?" I mused.
These are kids whose real life experiences are based on the nearest shopping mall, the video game arcade and the closest fast food outlets.
I wondered if I would be able to find a veteran of World war 1 to visit our school. There were very few of these people who were still alive. Any remaining amongst us would probably be too frail to undertake the formidable task of facing a room full of hyper critical teens.
It was then that I heard about Mr.Hunt. He was a veteran from World War 2 and a retired secondary school teacher. I contacted the gentleman and he reluctantly agreed to make one visit although he was quite sure my students would not be interested in his stories.
He started off his talk by telling my kids that he had been doing very badly at school. For that reason, he lied about his age and enlisted in the Canadian armed forces at the age of 15. A small voice from the back of the classroom exclaimed "You were one year older than I am. What did your parents say?"
"My father said, well boy, you aren't doing anything productive at school, Go see if you can make something of yourself in the army. "replied Mr.Hunt.
World War 2 was underway and Mr.Hunt was sent to North Africa where he became part of a 5 person tank crew. It was his job to make sure the gunner in the tank, had ammunition for the big guns they carried.
Their assignment was to move out through the desert with a number of other tanks and to raise dust that would hide the movements of soldiers on foot as they advanced towards the enemy lines.
"My tank commander was an idiot." said Mr. Hunt. He instructed our driver to go down into a gully where we immediately got completely stuck in the sand. It was so hot in the tank, we broke the rules and popped open the top turret cover and took off our heavy woolen jackets. We were sitting there joking around when suddenly we heard the sound of something metallic hitting our tank. A German jeep had driven up beside us and they tossed a hand grenade into the tank through the opening on the top of our turret. The commander reached up and grabbed the live grenade and tried to throw it back outside. He was too late and it exploded, killing him instantly. The rest of us were also injured and we knew we had to get out of there. The tank had a trapdoor in the bottom of if, to use as an escape route. As I climbed down through the door, hot oil from the engine sprayed on me and I was now badly burned as well as injured. My crew mates decided that I was not going to make it so they left me behind as they ran for it. There I was, stretched out on that boiling hot sand. Well, I thought, you're going to die, you might as well eat your emergency chocolate bar that you have in your pocket. As I started to eat my chocolate, I began to choke. By this time the Germans were advancing through the gulley, travelling on foot. One German heard me chocking and he turned around and came back to me. Well, this is it, I'm dead I thought. He helped me to sit up and then he gave me a drink of water from his canteen. When I stopped coughing, he gently laid me back down and continued on his way."
There was stunned silence in my classroom.
Finally one student said softly, "But he was the enemy."
"We were all just kids" said Mr.Hunt quietly.
Mr.Hunt was the guest of honor at our school Remembrance Day ceremony. When he entered the school gym, 500 students spontaneously rose to their feet and gave him a long and heart felt standing ovation.