Childhood

During high school I worked part-time as a cashier in a drug store. When I went to apply for a job there, I met Isabel, a lady from our church. She said, "We have a new girl starting tonight. However, if she doesn't work out, then we'll be needing someone." Well, as luck would have it, the new girl didn't show up for her shift so the next day, Isabel called me and I went in to get a uniform and fill out the application.

After being on the job for a few weeks, I noticed that two retired gentlemen hobbled in with their canes every evening for a package of cigarettes. They would strike up a conversation and stay for a few minutes before hobbling back across the street to their apartment building.

"Wouldn't it be easier to buy a carton?" I asked one day.

"Then we wouldn't have the pleasure of your conversation and friendly smile," one replied, and they both chuckled.

"Where did you come from?" asked the other.

"I grew up in the Maritimes and moved to Scarborough when I was in grade eight," I replied.

"I knew it," crowed the questioner. "A friendly nature like yours certainly didn't grow up in this area. You don't act like a typical Toronto teenager."

"Thanks...I think," I blushingly replied.

That's the truth! I spent my early years growing up in Moncton, New Brunswick. I grew up as the oldest of three children and the only daughter. My parents were committed to each other and to us. Mom stayed at home with us while Dad worked at Eaton's catalogue department. We lived in a large, older home that formerly had belonged to my maternal grandparents. We owned a large lot with a garden, lots of lilac bushes, a strawberry patch, raspberry bushes, black currant bushes, and cherry trees. One season, we picked 72 quarts of cherries from those two trees. Needless to say, cherry pie was a staple at our house and at many family gatherings. Some relatives had farms just outside the city and we visited them frequently, especially during haying season.

The big job every summer was making hay. A neighbour of my grandfather, Clyde Jonah, owned a baler--a machine that when towed behind a tractor, would take hay in one end and spit large, rectangular bales out of the other end. My great-uncle, Ron, would first cut the hay at his farm, then move on to my grandfather's to cut while Clyde baled Ron's. The final step was collecting all of the bales and storing them in the respective barns for winter feeding of Grampy's horses, Ron's dairy cows, and Clyde's livestock. It was a great honour to be able to drive the tractor which towed the large hay wagon, and I achieved that honour the summer that I turned 12. I was big enough to hold the clutch in on the tractor on the straight passes up and down the field. An adult would jump up and turn the corners for me, then drive the tractor back to the barn when the wagon was full. The next summer, the honour passed on to my brother, David, so I was promoted to lifting the large bales onto the wagon. As the bales were placed on the wagon, someone piled them very carefully. Once the bales reached a certain height, I was not strong enough to lift the bales over my head so I would run ahead and move all the bales closer to the pending path of the tractor. Even though I was the only female, I do not remember thinking, "I can't do "" I just figured out how I could contribute, because if I was there, I was expected to help. In fact, there was almost a "rite of passage" associated with the attainment of an age where we could participate in the adult role. Frequently, in the summer, we would take our tent or our trailer to the shore house--an old farmhouse with property that extended to a sandy beach on Northumberland Strait across from Prince Edward Island. Rumour had it that if we could see the island, then we were due for a storm. Sometimes, if the weather was bad, we would stay in the house, but we most often camped closer to the beach. There was a drop of about 20 feet from the farmland down to the beach. The view was spectacular! The only drawback was that the outhouse was up at the house, across a paved road. One summer we borrowed a little motor bike that we could drive up to the road and park, run across to the outhouse, then drive back down to the beach area. The novelty of driving a motor bike to the bathroom never did wear off.

When I was small, I thought that everyone had family dinner every Sunday. Not until I was in school and beginning to develop friends did I learn that things were different. Many people did not have a large number of relatives living close enough to gather, and those that did often did not get along well enough to meet regularly. My brothers are married and have children of their own, yet we still meet at Mom and Dad's place to celebrate family birthdays or Christmas.

Every Sunday we would go to my grandfather's farm after church to ride the horses, go for a sleighride, or for a hike in the woods. Then, we would have a roast beef dinner with lots of gravy and mashed potatoes. My father's brothers were younger than he, and since they were single, would occasionally bring a date. One particular Sunday, we were asking riddles. (I think one of my brothers had just learned how riddles worked.) When it was David's turn to ask a riddle, he said, "Uncle Wayne?"

"Yes, David?" said Wayne expecting another riddle like everyone else.

"How come every time we come here, you have a different girlfriend?" David asked innocently.

Needless to say, everyone howled. The unexpected question instead of a riddle and the truth of the question really made an impact. From those family gatherings, I learned that humour and gentle teasing can go a long way to ease tension in an awkward situation. Also, my uncles were always the first people to tell a joke on themselves, showing me the benefit of being able to laugh at myself. Following is a recent family gathering for a family birthday. My mother is taking the picture. The gray-haired lady near the front is a visiting cousin of my mother.

Another important aspect of those family dinners, besides humour, was the respect afforded to each other. The rule, "Children should be seen and not heard" did not exist at our family gatherings. We were members of the family, and so participation in discussions was not only allowed but expected. In fact, our participation was mandatory, even in adolescence when "hanging with parents" was not cool. In retrospect, I realize our situation was unique. Only rarely, at times when there were too many people for one table, did the children sit at a separate table. The ritual of gathering meant that we all knew we were loved and had a place where we belonged. At the time I took those Sunday dinners for granted; however, upon reflection, I realize how lucky we were. Our opinions were respected while we learned the art of conversation. As a teacher, I continued to value and respect the opinions of my students.

After moving to Toronto, we maintained the family ritual of having dinner together every evening. At the time, I thought it was rather corny and embarrassing that I had to be home for dinner with my family every night, but now I realize the security and stability provided by that environment. Actually sharing what we did that day, making plans for holidays, working out a practice schedule for those of us who had not yet practiced our piano lesson that day--those were the topics for discussion.

Another aspect of our family togetherness was attending church. Each spring, I can remember shopping for a new hat for Easter Sunday. Dresses were not an issue because my mother sewed most of my clothes. I had many friends at church and did not mind going. In fact, I guess I never considered that I might not go....we were never given that option. My father was the Superintendent of Sunday School, and we would meet in the sanctuary before Sunday School each week to sing and have Bible-Verse Hunt competitions. My father would name the verse, then the first person to find it could stand and read it. For many years, my mother was the church organist and my father sang in the choir. My parents would sing duets at weddings and one summer had eight different weddings booked. My parents' friends, with whom we would go camping, all went to the same church. It was the centre for our social life, for our music and for our spiritual health. Only recently, within the last 5 or 6 years, have I come to realize the importance of faith to the formation of my values. I used to be embarrassed when my parents would speak of trusting in God whenever they had a difficult decision to make. "At least don't talk that way around my friends, okay?" I would mutter in disgust. Now, I understand that part of the reason that I see connections between occurrences, or appreciate the lessons learned from unpleasant situations, originates from the faith my parents demonstrated and their belief that everything happens for a reason. Unpleasant experiences or situations teach us things, often more effectively than pleasant experiences.

When we moved to Scarborough in 1970, we began visiting churches in the area. We had attended a United church in Moncton but the closest United church left us a little cold. The architecture was very contemporary and unlike anything we had been in before. Next, we visited a Presbyterian church that was close by and unanimously, the three children voted for that church. The atmosphere and friendly people reminded us of the churches we had attended in New Brunswick. We joined Melville Presbyterian Church and later discovered the minister was also from New Brunswick. I remember the fact that we were allowed to vote for the church that we wanted to attend. I can see Mom and Dad looking at each other over the heads of my younger brothers, and Dad shook his head and said, "Well, I guess that's that," and Mom nodded. So, it was decided. I think I remember that because we had a chance to give an opinion and have that opinion valued. As mentioned before, I learned that children have opinions worth hearing.

Some of my most important musical memories happened in that church. A young musician, newly graduated from University of Toronto, started a youth choir. I was a member for 5 years and loved it. We performed pieces like Cat Stevens's Morning has Broken and Captain Noah and his Floating Zoo. When I was in grade 12, the same conductor, David Christiani, formed the Presbyterian Centennial Choir, and my whole family was involved. My mother sang soprano, my father and brother sang tenor, I sang alto, and my younger brother, at age12, turned pages for the accompanist. In July of that year, we went on a 2-week tour of the Maritimes, performing in churches in New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, and on Prince Edward Island. I still occasionally run into people from that choir. I learned many things from this experience. Our family was involved together, so each member had something of value to contribute. The experience centered around church, faith, musical talent, and learning to get along with a large number of people in an enclosed bus for 2 weeks.

People

There were also other people who had a lasting impact in my memory. Besides my family, other important people were my great-grandmother or Gram as we called her, Sister Marie Martine, and Mr. Herdman. My parents and brothers have already been mentioned. My great-grandmother lived with one of her sons, but frequently came to stay for a week. Gram never stopped. She was small and stooped, her joints swollen with arthritis but she kept active at various things. She was famous for her rolls. She could not see the numbers on the stove dials, but could gauge the temperature by holding her hand in the oven before baking her delicious rolls. I remember one visit.

I was perpetually at the library. Either on Monday after piano lessons Mom would stop at the library downtown, or once every 2 weeks the "bookbus" would arrive just outside of our school so we could exchange books. I went through a phase when my favourite books were the "Little House" books by Laura Ingalls Wilder. On one visit, Gram found one of the books that I had finished. She started reading. A couple of times a day, she would sit in the big chair by the window and, with her magnifying glass, she would read. I never asked her the reason that she liked the book, but my father thought she could identify with the time frame since she had been born near the end of the previous century.

Gram had five children, yet the first time she was ever in the hospital was just before she died at age 95. She had a sharp mind as evidenced by her great sense of humour. She could still knit, crochet, and even tie quilts. Our birthdays were only one day apart, so I hope that means that I stand a better chance of inheriting some of her character traits. She died when I was 14 years old, and it was the first time I remember seeing my father cry. I did not understand his sadness because I felt she had lived a long and full life. Now, in retrospect, I understand that her death was the end of an era. Until that point, there were four generations alive in our family (I'm the baby).

I noticed that when Gram spoke, everyone listened. She was treated with respect and great care. Even though she was crippled with arthritis, her mind was active and she kept pushing herself to be involved in family activities. Gram was interested in our schooling and in learning new things. I know my love of learning and my empathy for others was affected by her presence in my life.

When I was a child, my parents believed that we should be involved and active. That was fine with us, because we only had two television channels and one was in French. At the age of 9, I was enrolled for piano lessons at the local convent, Notre Dame D'acadie. In my second year of lessons, I met Sister Marie Martine. She was kind and caring, yet worked hard to help me feel and understand the music, not just woodenly play it. She had large, brown eyes that looked deep into my heart and mind. She pushed me to be the best I could be, but never raised her voice. I learned that students often respond better to kind support rather than browbeating and caustic criticism. After a couple of years with her, I began singing lessons. She believed that I had a great deal of potential. That was the year that my father came home and suggested that we consider moving to Toronto. He had been offered a promotion if we would make the move. I remember saying, "But Dad, Sister Martine told me that she could make something of my voice." Initially, I was not receptive to the move; however, after a family discussion and consultation with Sister Martine, I learned that opportunities would abound in Toronto, so decided the move might not be so bad after all.

In Toronto, there was the opportunity to take instrumental music in school. When I was in grade 9, I went to hear my younger brother's orchestra perform at Joseph Brant Senior Public School and decided that I would like to play another instrument. So I went into student services the next day and changed my optional course for grade 10 from Latin to music. My first day in the music class, the teacher went around the room to ask us what our first choice of instrument would be. I picked clarinet. That was the instrument my cousin, Phyllis, had played in the Moncton band, so my father suggested it. Mr. Herdman said, "Good." I am sure that was only a reflex answer and not intended as approval, but it meant a great deal to me. That was the beginning of my high school music career playing a musical instrument.

Mr. Herdman was stern and worked hard. He pushed each of us to be the best we could be. I believed that he cared too much to let us be satisfied with less than our best.

Although for the most part our personal histories are private mental constructs, most individuals possess observable evidence--artifacts--of elements of their personal histories: photographs, report cards, awards, school projects, creative writing efforts, craftworks, artworks, old textbooks and readers, trophies, school yearbooks, and other memorabilia. (Cole & Knowles, 2000, p. 29)

One morning before leaving for school, I was reading a book and came upon the above quote. "I wonder," I thought and hopped out of my chair to go check out the basement. Over in the corner, covered in cobwebs and thick dust, I found my scrapbooks. My mother had given them to me about a year ago because she was making room for grandchildren visiting at her house.

"Take these home and revisit your childhood," she said. Inwardly I groaned. I find it just about impossible to throw anything out. My mother does also, so she gives things to me and I have to find the courage to do the deed. Otherwise, there would be no room for me in my little house.

My second reason for groaning is the fact that I don't consider my childhood particularly idyllic. I have a wonderful family and great memories of holidays camping together, but I did not make childhood friends that I kept forever.

That day, I blew the dust off my scrapbooks and started a journey back in time. I remembered the music scrapbook--the one that is full of my music festival certificates and recital programs. As I read over the names again, I could see the faces, the polyester dresses, the stiff ringlets, and I could feel the nervous tension--just like it was yesterday! The other scrapbooks were surprising. I had forgotten the number of concerts that we attended as a family. Every program and ticket stub was glued into the books! The old mucilage was so dried out that the turn of each page loosened another piece of paper. Even some of the pages have loosened with age.

Now, I understand! I was under the impression that practicing the piano was something that my parents made me do, and all those years of practicing created a depth of ability that caused me to choose music for a career path. Rather than only fostering a talent, my parents were instilling a love for music in each of us that is still apparent in our lives. Susan and Thomas Kuczmarski (1995), also believe that

during childhood, our values are shaped by our parents, family members, siblings, peers, teachers, and religious affiliations. Each of these influential people and associations shared their own beliefs with us and transferred their values to us as children. Our childhood experiences from school...as well as daily family practices, styles of interaction, and approaches to discipline--all had a major impact on our values formation. (p. 43)

I can remember wanting to quit piano lessons because I did not have time for the fun things that my friends did. My father always asked, "You would like to play the piano like Mavis, wouldn't you?" She was the eldest daughter of another church family and played the piano every Sunday morning for the Sunday School singing. "Yes," I would answer. "Then the only way you will be able to do that is if you practice."

"Okay," and back to the piano I would go.

Since opening my scrapbooks 2 weeks ago, I have had musical memories swirling around in my head constantly. I have come to the conclusion that my philosophy of teamwork, my desire to find and respect the strengths of each person in the group, persistence toward a desired goal despite the cost, and my need to support students as they learn a new skill in an environment that fosters risk-taking all come from my childhood of practicing the piano and working with groups of musicians.

I empathize with the musician quoted in Cole and Knowles (2000). People have varying levels of abilities and strengths, so must be valued for the variety they provide. An orchestra or band comprised of only cellos or only saxophones would certainly be limited in the available depth and scope of tone colours, dynamics, and musical styles. The director's role, whether an administrator or a teacher, necessitates building a relationship with the members of the ensemble and discerning their particular strengths so they are placed in the appropriate position to strengthen and benefit the entire group (Stern, 2000). Showing each member that their particular talents are valued by helping them find a place where they feel vital to the success of the group's performance can help build a team of motivated players.

"Who am I as teacher?...I am an artist; I am a teacher. Of the two, neither role (or the experiences which find articulation in them) comes before the other, but each informs the other" (Cole & Knowles, 2000, p. 16). As a musician, practicing scales, etudes, and pieces over and over again, disciplining myself to do it one more time even when I was frustrated and tired, I have developed certain characteristics which are evident in my practice. Music demands years of almost daily exercise to develop and maintain skills, along with the patience and perseverance to endure many frustrations and unsuccessful efforts. As a result, I have learned that persistence usually pays off. I have also learned that short-term pain and frustration are worth the gain of accomplishing something that I did not think that I could do. I know that the easiest way to get over the discomfort and nerves of a pending performance or other unsavory task is to go through it, feel it, and deal with it. Otherwise, it will continue to plague every other task I set for myself. Working in musical groups with performers of varying abilities, I have learned patience for those less able than I am, and I have learned to replace jealousy with admiration for those more able than I am. Most important, I have learned to appear calm and competent on the outside, while on the inside I am tense and concerned about a pending performance.

What bearing do all of the above stories have on my development? I believe I must understand who I am as a person in order to understand who I am as a teacher. Family, music, and church--the three main elements of my childhood are interconnected and have affected each other. My whole family would have missed the opportunity to perform in the Presbyterian Centennial Choir if we had decided to maintain our affiliation with the United church when we moved to Toronto. If our opinion had not been valued by our parents, we would have started attending the United church. Without my experiences with church music, would I have chosen music as my field of study as readily? My parents valued church, music, and family. They modeled commitment to a goal and respect for each other and for us. Integrity, credibility, self-discipline, honesty, trust, caring, kindness, and humour were evident in their dealings with each other, with us, and with friends. Sitting quietly in church, whether we understood enough to truly listen or not, was expected. Helping out at church turkey suppers was an honour, not a duty. Performing at the church Christmas concert was something to anticipate, not dread. Developing that sense of community as children helped us become better community members as adults.

Who we are and come to be as teachers and teacher-educators is a reflection of a complex, ongoing process of interaction and interpretation of elements, conditions, opportunities, and events that take place throughout our lives in all realms of our existence.....[so]making sense of prior and current life experiences in the context of the personal as it influences the ""professional" is the essence of professional development. (Cole & Knowles, 2000, p. 15)

In this section, I have attempted to explain who I am and how I came to be this special combination of strengths, abilities, talents, beliefs, biases, and, most important, values. As I write these stories, like Conle (2000), "I seem to speak in two voices simultaneously: the narrator's voice that presents the case and the theoretical voice that conceptualizes what is presented" (p. 193). As I record the stories, I consider their significance. I believe that values are instilled; however, at some point in my life they must be tested in order to become truly mine. At this stage in my life, a great deal of testing has taken place, and I understand that my values do, in fact, stem from my childhood, as Kuczmarski and Kuczmarski (1995) describe. Growing up, I remember the period of rebellion when I did not want to be a Maritimer, I wanted to fit in with my new friends in Toronto. I thought I needed to be a very different person. I did not appreciate the aspects of my childhood that made me unique. Peer acceptance and approval became more important.

Now that I am older and wiser, I realize that whether I accept or cast off the values of my parents, I am still defining myself by those values. Having spent time on the origin of my personal values in Chapter One, I explain the circumstances that helped shape those values apparent in my professional life in Chapter Two.