Gandalf The Grey, But Not So Wise

When I was a teenager we had two Keeshond dogs: Gandalf the Grey (Gandy for short) and Kaila.

Gandalf: "I'm sorry, did you say fetch? I. Don't. Think. So."

Kaila: "Hey, look Ma!  I'm gonna use my paws to fling my ball up in the air and then catch it in my mouth!  Aren't I clever?!"

Mom absolutely hates it when we say this, but Gandy was... SPECIAL. I don't mean that in a "he's magnificent, just look at how he rescued those three kittens and little Timmy from that well!" or "wow, that Gandalf is brilliant, see how well he can do complex math equations and bark the answers!" kind of way.

No, Gandy was Special in an "oh, what an absolute sweetheart, but... he's not too bright is he?" kind of way.  

If you threw a treat in the air for Kaila, she would leap up and catch it mid-flight.  Do the same for Gandalf and he would duck, dashing an accusing "why are you throwing things at me?" look your way. Once the treat landed safely on the ground, he would gladly gobble it up.

Gandalf the Grey's namesake, the literary character of Tolkien's works, was a wizard known for being the wisest of his kind. Gandalf the Grey of the fuzzy canine variety did not quite live up to his name. He was very sweet and kindhearted, but wise and fierce he was not.

Case in point:

One day there was a purple taco chip sitting on the floor in between the refrigerator and the counter. The food and water dishes for the dogs were at the other end of the kitchen. Gandy took one look at the fallen purple taco chip and sat down. He refused to move and began to whine because he wanted a drink of water but there was this alien purple artifact blocking his way. He looked up at us as if to say "but mom! That thing might jump up and attack me! I can't go past that! Walk over it? Are you kidding? I don't know what that thing is, it might get me!" Mom and I just snickered, called him a wuss and stood back to watch the drama unfold.

After five to ten minutes of this, Kaila came sauntering into the room, took one look at the evil purple taco chip, sniffed it once, ate it, and walked on to the water bowl. The terrible, horrible, monstrous, dog-eating purple THING gone, Gandy joined Kaila for a drink of water.

~

Gandalf loved our neighbour Gary. He would dash across the lawn to literally leap into Gary's outstretched arms. At mom's command, he would also "walk Gary home" after visits, then dash back across the street to mom. When Gandy was about six months old, Gary and Heather were over for a visit and Gandy was planted at Gary's feet. Mom kept trying to warn Gary that the dog looked like he was up to something, but Gary, the good sport that he was, brushed it off and said Gandy was just fine where he was. When Gary got up to leave, displacing his adoring canine friend, we all glanced down to discover that about 90% of the cuff of one of his pant legs had been chewed loose. Mom was horrified and profusely apologetic. Luckily Gary has a very good sense of humour and did not seem at all upset by this discovery. In fact he appeared to be rather amused.

~

Gandy was always a bit of an odd pup. He was terrified of storm drains. He knew where every drain in the neighbourhood was located and would begin tugging on his leash about ten feet away to make a wide circle around each one. Every once in a while he would be distracted (perhaps by a desire to beg, borrow or steal tasty treats hidden in human pockets) and would forget to take his preventative measures. About a foot away from the drain he would realize his mistake and come to a complete stop. He would plant his furry front feet, tug back on his leash, and if given enough slack, sit on his furry butt and refuse to move another inch. All of this while whining like he was about to be murdered by evil purple taco chip monsters, or dog-eating drain dwellers. No! Way! was he going near that dog-eating drain!

Haircuts

As just about everyone who knows me could tell you, I have almost always had long hair.

When I was eleven, it was nearly to my waist, until the fateful day my mom agreed to take me to get my hair cut. I told the hairdresser to cut it to below my shoulder blades. She assured me that I had nothing to worry about, no problem, she'd give me the cut I wanted.

I had to remove my glasses for the cut, and being near-sighted, could really only make out a vague impression of my reflection as she snipped away at my locks.

When I was finally allowed to put my glasses back on and see the result, I found, to my horror, that she had cut my hair to slightly above my shoulders. I was upset, but as I could hardly insist that she put the hair back, I sighed resignedly and mom and I headed home. I spent the entire ride home playing with the blunt ends of my hair, trying to convince myself that it was okay, it could have been much worse.

When we arrived home, my father took one look at me, then without a word, turned around and went outside onto the sundeck. I found him there, crying uncontrollably.

I gave him a big hug and said "It's okay daddy, it's just hair. It'll grow back!"

It was several years before I cut it anywhere near as short again. In fact it's become somewhat of a tradition to let it grow very long then chop it off to just below my shoulders every four or five years.

The last time I did this was almost ten years ago. My dad had passed away a couple of years earlier, so I didn't have to worry about upsetting him by cutting off my "beautiful hair." I've had haircuts since then, but never gone shorter than falling to my mid-back.

Until last week.

Last Tuesday, at 3:30pm, I had hair that hung below my derriere. 

As of 5:30pm, I had hair that hung to just below my shoulders.

I donated a 25 inch ponytail of hair to a group that makes wigs for kids suffering from cancer or Aleopacia.

It will take a while to get used to having hair this short (for me) again. We took pictures before and after the haircut, as my five-year-old niece said: "because it will be a long time before your hair gets long again." She informed me very diplomatically that she liked it both long and short, but she was glad we took the pictures so we would remember it long.

I couldn't help but think of my dad and that first drastic haircut, and whisper to him, "It's okay daddy, it's just hair. It'll grow back."

Dad's Adventures In Teaching

As you may already know, my dad was a high-school Math teacher.

Over the years he relayed many tales about his teaching experiences... including the time his students decided to paint holiday representations of the teachers including this one of my dad as Santa:


There are four anecdotes that have particularly stuck with me over the years.  I thought I'd share them here.

I Need Some Help With This Equation... or RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIP!

One day dad had his class working on some math problems when one of his students put up her hand to ask for his help.  He went over to her desk to see where she had gotten lost in the equation, and just as he bent down to peer at the paper, there was an unmistakeable ripping sound from directly behind him.  The class burst into laughter, while dad's face undoubtably became a rather deep shade of red.

Shocked and embarrassed, dad quickly backed away and excused himself from the classroom for a moment.  He wanted to check out the damage.  The thing was, his pants were perfecly in tact.  There was no tear to be found on any of his clothing.

Mollified, he returned to the classroom only to find that the student sitting directly behind the girl who had requested help figuring out the equation had two pieces of cloth stuffed under her desk.  They had planned the entire thing to make him think he had ripped his pants.

I think it was quite some time before he was able to look at this event (or those students) with humour instead of humiliation, but eventually it became one of his favorite stories of pranks pulled by students.


Passing Notes
WARNING!  This is not a happy story.  If you can't handle sad things, skip ahead to the next one.

Dad had a rule in his classroom that if he caught someone passing a note in class, he would not only confiscate it, but read it then and there.  This horrified some of his students, but they never knew the real reason why he was so adamant about it.

Once there was a girl in one of his classes whom he caught passing a note to a friend.  She was a girl like any other in the class, nothing made her particularly stand out.  He saw the note being passed and confiscated it on the spot.  Not looking at the note, he stuffed it into his desk drawer and carried on with the lesson.  He didn't give it another thought.

The following Monday dad arrived at school to the news that one of his students had committed suicide that weekend.  It was not until days or weeks later that dad found the note in his desk.  It said something along the lines of:  "I can't take it anymore.  I'm going to kill my self this weekend."

The note was this girl's last cry for help, and it went unheard.

The incident deeply affected him.  It think it kind of broke him in a way.  I don't know if dad ever fully got over the guilt of that feeling of "what if?"  What if he had read the note?  What if he hadn't confiscated it, and the intended recipient had read it?  What if someone had heard that last deperate plea for help?  What if?

His students may have thought of him as a hard-ass for reading any confiscated notes, but I think it was his way of trying to make things right.  He never wanted to relive that experience, so he did the only thing he could think of to make sure it never happened again.


Your Test Or Mine?

One year, dad suspected some of his students of cheating on their math tests.  In order to catch them he devised a cunning plan.  For the following math test he created two tests.  Each test had questions that were of equal difficulty, but different variables.

For example, one test might have question 1 as "2b + 4 = 14  solve for b"  while the corresponding question on the other test might have "3a + 5 = 23 solve for a."


Dad placed the tests face-down on the desks in a checkerboard pattern so that each person in front and behind as well as to either side had a different test.


The students came in, wrote the test and left.


When dad was marking the tests he found that one of his students had copied every answer (including the wrong ones) from the person in front of him... He hadn't even looked at the questions on his own page... or he would have realized that his neighbour was solving for "a" while he was solving for "b."


Needless to say, that student recieved a big fat zero on the test and a trip to the principal's office.


Dad decided that this method of weeding out the cheaters had worked so well that from that point on he always made two tests for every class, laying them out in a checkerboard pattern.

Singing Detentions

This is probably my favorite story about my dad's teaching experience.

Like most teachers, dad had some students who managed to earn themselves regular detentions.

Unlike most teachers, dad sometimes employed a rather unique method of encouraging his students to avoid being put in detention more than once.

Dad loved music.  He could remember the names of songs and artists that he had heard many years before.  Often he would remember the lyrics to songs that nobody else knew.  My parents were once excluded from a competition in a pub because the person running the "free drinks" bet knew they could sing every word of the obscure song "Propper Cuppa Coffee." They were members of the local Folk Song Society and used to have regular "folkie" parties at their home.

While dad loved music, when it came to singing himself... well lets just be polite and say he was a little on the tone-deaf side.  Added to that, his choice of music would not have fallen into the category of what his students would have concidered "cool."

During one noteable detention he decided to try an experiment.  He sang "The Red Corvette" by John McCutcheon. When he had finished he asked each of the students a question about the song.  If they answered correctly, he let them leave.  If they answered incorrectly, he sang it again.  Most of the students got out of there after the second performance, but one student could not answer a single question right.

"How much did the car cost?"
"I dunno."
(Sings song again.)
"What kind of car was it?"
"I dunno."
(Sings again.)
"Why was she selling the car?"
"I dunno."
(Sings again... and again... and again...finally throwing up his hands and asking:)
"What colour was the Corvette?"

The student still couldn't answer correctly, so they both had to suffer through the full detention.

Years later, former students still warned thier siblings and friends not to get detention with Mr. S, or they might be subjected to the torture of one of his infamous singing detentions.