On Guard!

The temperature outside has started to sharpen a little this week, just chilly enough to remind us what is coming. But unlike many (normal) people who are excited to welcome pumpkin-spice latte season or to enjoy the dramatic colours of the changing leaves, I find myself remembering the epic thrill of being selected as not only the class “monitor” but also, a school Crossing Guard …

I know what you’re thinking and you’re right.

These were heady times, indeed.

The General was heartily amused when I shared this with him and laughingly observed that I sounded like the kind of kid that he and his ‘friends’ would have chased. (And I don’t think he meant this in a flirtatious way, either). He laughed even more when I described my duties as ‘monitor’ which culminated in patting the blackboard erasers rhythmically against the outdoor bricks of the school and snapping the “shammies” into the wind in order to release their chalk dust. (God, how old AM I …) Believe it or not this was considered very cool indeed at the time and the younger children would gather around in a kind of awe as we added a casual, no-big-thing flourish to the wrist action as we brandished those pillowy, wooden-handled erasers. Yellowy-white chalk dust remained on our palms and probably lungs throughout the day.

Even though The General teases me for my alleged “brown nosing” tendencies, in actual fact, I was that child who had to routinely leave school via the fire escape in order to avoid The Mean Girls who were waiting for me, possibly envious of my Crossing Guard status and the much coveted privilege of leaving class fifteen minutes early in order to reach my appointed corner and get my belt on.

The belt that was issued to school Crossing Guards - and was one of the highlights of the position - was designed to fit a tall morbidly obese man in middle age and made of crinkly, unyielding plastic. When I pulled the belt over my head, it immediately pooled around my ankles like a fluorescent snake. My father, whose tolerance for such things was set at slightly less than zero, spent a very long time, cigarette off to one side of his mouth, feeding the seemingly endless strip through the buckle to try and make it fit my tiny frame. In the end, he spread the entire thing out on the kitchen table like a surgeon and somehow re-configured it to cross my shoulder snugly and connect with the big steel fastener without even sagging. I felt like Queen Victoria every time I drew that (day-glo orange) strap dramatically across my 11 year old chest and heard the button click into place. (Note: The belts were, of course, handed in at the end of the year and I was anxious that my adjusted version might get me into trouble. Happily, my father’s haute couture skillset remained unnoticed and may have launched a new trend for a pixie-waisted, more discriminating Crossing Guard).