Bill's Bulletin Board
By Bill Rea

The late Pierre Berton called 1967 "the last good year."

I've been flipping of late through his book of that title; one of many that came into my possession from my mother's abode after her death three years ago, and a book I hope to actually read in detail one of these days. As it is, I've flipped through a few isolated reflections of Canada's Centennial year, reliving, among other things, that it was the last time the Leafs won the Stanley Cup.

But was it the last good year, as Berton would evidently have had us believe? Granted, it didn't come with all the turmoil that characterized the following year, especially south of the border, where they had to cope with assassinations, riots and a growing realization that they were stuck in an escalating war that they were not likely to win.

I would argue that good times and bad times run sort of in cycles, with the phases being subject to individual interpretation. I wouldn't agree with a statement that life has been in the tank for the last 40 years. Then again, the Leafs haven't won much in that period either.

Looking at things from my own point of view, I was nine years old in '67, and as anyone who has ever been nine will readily testify, things can generally only go up from there. And they have. I enforce my own bed time, I have some clout over the food I'm expected to sit down and consume (my father's fondness for turnip, cabbage and beets are just a bad memory now), and I don't have any adults telling me I watch too much television, or "smellevision," as my mother used to call it, or that "(blankety-blank) idiot box," which is how my father referred to it. Indeed, I have more impediments to my TV watching than ever before - I have to share the one TV in the house with a wife.

But in one particular way, 1967 was the last good year, at least for a while. It was a good year for me in school. It was the last good year in school, at least until I got into high school. I was half way through Grade 3 when '67 started, and I was having a good time. I think the reason for that is simple - that was the year I learned how to misbehave in class.

At the risk of inciting some of today's youngsters to give their teacher a hard time, it was fun.

During my days in school, there were the wellbehaved kids, and then there were the not-so-well behaved ones. Kids cause trouble for a variety of reasons, be they some sort of personal, emotional or psychological trouble, boredom, anti-social tendencies, or maybe just simply because it's fun!

I think it's the same for everyone who spends eight or nine years in the same school system. In my case, there were the high-spirited, rambunctious kids. To a typical nine-year-old like myself, they were known as "trouble-makers." There were the kids who seldom caused any serious trouble. To a typical nine-year-old like myself, they were known as "ordinary kids." And there were the kids who never caused any trouble at all (at least when the teacher was watching) and who were insufferably sanctimonious in their overwhelming goodness. To a typical nine-year-old like myself, they were known as "girls."

Needless to say, girls took on a whole new dimension for me in the years that followed.

In those days, if enough trouble-makers made enough trouble, the whole class got in trouble, which meant detentions. There were plenty of times I'd see kids act up and have a good time at it, and I'd end up serving the same sentence they did.

In my day at my school, there were enough Grade 3 students to fill three classes, and for some reason, most of the "trouble-makers" ended up being among my classmates that year. That meant I had plenty of opportunities to witness some high-spirited behaviour, and by the time the Christmas break rolled around, I decided I had served enough detentions I hadn't earned. Time to experience life from the other side.

It was fun being in the "in" crowd for once in my life, even if our teacher evidently majored in discipline in her last year of school.

These guys had an unusual way of laughing, involving sounds resembling the bleating of goats. I got to be quite good at it. It drove the teacher up the wall.

During music class, we were not above changing the words to the songs we were singing. Since none of us could hold a note, it really didn't make much of an impression.

I also learned to belch in that class, since I was now hanging around some experts. Some of them were very, very good. I was still learning, and it was one of my early efforts that earned me my one and only trip to the principal's office in disgrace. I have since improved in that skill, as my wife and other people in my circle will readily confirm.

Our teacher was also not above phoning parents if things went too far. My mother got a couple of calls, which drew a few soon to be forgotten reprimands when I got home.

And for those of you who wonder about how I did scholastically during the months of unbridled fooling around, that was one of my best school years for marks.

The way this world progresses, all good things must eventually come to an end, including my delinquency period. Grade 3 ended with me getting an "X" on my final report card for conduct. But the year did end, and Grade 4 saw me dumped in with a much more sedate crowd. Misbehaviour in this class consisted mainly of cracking illicit bubblegum, something I was never very good at.

Thus I reverted back to being one of the "ordinary kids." Since then, I never really had the urge to act up or make a public spectacle of myself, meaning I've had to find other ways to have fun.

That doesn't mean I have vowed to conduct myself properly forever. Just watch me if the Leafs ever win the cup again.

On the other hand, the way things are going, I guess I have vowed to behave myself forever.