Have you ever heard a Newfoundlander speak French? Didn’t think so. When I went to Catholic school at Vancouver College, the Christian brothers came from Newfoundland. I can still hear Brother Rumsey’s pronunciation of “Je suis préféré” with his Newfie accent. The whole class laughed even though we were terrified of the potential punishment—a thick black leather strap, about two feet long. It hurt like hell, especially when inflicted by a grown man. That and the intoxicating religious indignation combined with the frustration of forced celibacy made for a world of pain. World o’ pain.
Three days a week, we took French with Mademoiselle Hurlburt, a kind, gentle woman. Unknown to Mademoiselle, her class was our opportunity to misbehave because we all wanted to make her cry.
In science class, we were experimenting with mealworms. We each had our mealworms in a pill bottle partially filled with oatmeal, their food source. Mealworms are the larval form of the mealworm beetle, so the idea was to observe the insect’s development stages. Like all holometabolous insects, they go through four life stages—egg, larva, pupa and adult. During the larval stage, the mealworm feeds and moults. That was the stage the mealworms were at in their transformation into little Paul McCartneys.
Every class, Mlle Hurlburt would arrive, exchange bonjours then sit down at her desk. She would invariably open the desk drawer, take out a piece of chalk and begin writing the day’s lesson on the blackboard. I was ten years old and too young to have a crush on her. However, I had a fantastic idea to make me the all-time class hero and possibly even the whole elementary school! The next day, after Brother Rumsey’s class, I would plant my mealworms in her desk drawer. We despised learning French, and we were terrified to try this on the Christian brothers. My scheme was going to be awesome.
The next day when Brother Rumsey left class, I ran up and placed three mealworms in the desk drawer, raced back to my seat and waited for my plan to unfold. Mademoiselle arrived and exchanged the usual bonjours. She sat at her desk and pulled open the drawer, turned white as a sheet, and began to shriek repeatedly. Brother Rumsey burst through the door, shouting my name, “CHISHOLM!” He sprinted over to my desk, grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and commanded, “Say sorry!”
Mademoiselle was sobbing, gasping for air. I knew I was done. The class was silent except for poor Mlle Hurlburt; I actually felt sorry for her and continually apologized, but she continued to sob. Brother Rumsey still had me in a death grip, and after Mademoiselle left (never to return), he stood me up in front of the class. He was furious, and I knew what was coming. “Hold out your hand,” Rumsey demanded, concealing a strap behind him. He stared at me with his evil sneer and pulled it out. WHAP WHAP WHAP WHAP WHAP. “Other hand!” Five more.
And what did I learn from this unlucky chain of events?
Even the most perfect plan can blow up in your face—just don’t get caught.
Merci beaucoup Brother Rumsey…Not.
