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| Mr. Ski explains a game |
Mr. Ski was a one-of-a-kind friend in my life, for many reasons. His nickname among his students was an apt moniker for a Phys. Ed. and Grade 5 teacher. He was the only male teacher in St. A's elementary school when I was there, and a guy that the kids really looked up to. Though he didn't say it in so many words, he loved his students, and they knew it, which is how a teacher truly makes a difference in the lives of those entrusted to him.
I looked up to Arthur (his real name), too. When I began my teaching career in small town Alberta, Art was the guy who thought to check up on me during my second week in the classroom. He punched me on the arm, asking, "Are you gonna make it, Rookie?" and when my eyes filled with tears because of his empathy and kindness, he immediately gave me the fatherly bear hug that I needed. "You Prediger kids are huggy sorts," he joked. That was the moment when I realized that he was a kindred spirit.
When my grandpa died unexpectedly a couple of weeks later and the phone call came to me at school just before my students arrived, Art found me in my classroom to listen to a different set of tears. He hugged me again, and shared about how he'd lost his dad when he was young. I appreciated his words more than he knew.
Art had 11 years of teaching experience beyond mine, and became the person I turned to for advice and help. He taught my Grade 3 or 4 Phys. Ed. classes and I taught his Grade 5 Religion program. He sat on the couch in the staff room during recesses and lunch time, and I sat with him, as it was in close proximity to the fridge and my mid-morning diabetic snack. Once I asked him why he chose to sit there instead of at the long staff table, and he said, "To avoid the politics."
He became a mentor, big brother, and best friend, though I didn't notice it happening at the time. I credit him now with keeping me on an even keel through a particularly tough second year of teaching. He always seemed to know when I needed to get some frustration or other out of my system, leaning on the doorframe of my classroom, encouraging me. He picked up on the times when an invitation to hang out with his wife, Jan, and their young kids, would be most appreciated. He consistently modelled how to treat students with love.
At the end of my tough second year of teaching, Art told me that he was planning to take a year's sabbatical to be Kindergarten Dad for his youngest, and I was suddenly faced with an even tougher third school year without him. That's when I began to realize how much his friendship/mentorship meant to me, and my teaching journal from those days is filled with reflections about how much I would miss him in the year ahead. The students that were coming to me were going to be challenging, to put it mildly, and Art wouldn't be there to crack jokes to distract from ongoing staff politics.
The summer solstice evening just before Art's sabbatical is imprinted in my memory. I was ending the school year with a terrible case of laryngitis, and stayed in my classroom quite late to finish report cards. Art was cleaning out his room for his sabbatical leave. Somehow, we ended up walking from the school to the local 7-11 for throat lozenges, report card stickers and two cans of diet coke, and ended up taking a long walk in the dusky evening, discussing my recent engagement and long distance relationship, and those ever present staffroom politics. By the time we got back to school, we'd set the world straight. Art was that kind of friend.
The next day, I was still voiceless, tired and somewhat tearful, wondering how I would manage without Art at school for the next year. That's when he surprised me by telling me that we were kindred spirits in more ways than I knew. Well, he didn't exactly tell me, but for the next day or two he kept throwing hints my way, his eyes twinkling and his grin mischievous... until, on his last day at St. A's, I turned to him in shock as it finally dawned on me -- "You have Type 1 diabetes too??!!!!"
Two years of sitting together eating our recess snacks on the staff room couch, and it never once dawned on me. He ate healthy, but probably cheated on his diet as much as I did, without commenting on my misbehaviour. I do remember him pouring me some of his own fridge-stored apple juice one day when I complained of low blood sugars and feeling shaky. I wasn't the only one who didn't realize that he had Type 1 diabetes -- he never told anyone on staff because he'd had enough of being stigmatized when he was a kid. I'm not sure anyone but his family ever really knew.
But his "sweet secret" was also mine, and became a special bond of sorts between us. From then on we compared notes about our diabetes care. I survived my third year of teaching (though I'll admit, without Art there, I got sucked into staff politics and student misbehaviour and felt pretty burnt out by the end of the year). At the end of that year, I moved back to the city and got married, and somehow never did return to teaching. I had fun dancing with Art's kids at my wedding, and he took one of my favourite wedding pictures from that day.
Through the years, my friendship with Art continued, though phone calls were irregular and visits scarce, mostly because of distance. When he had his first heart attack, I learned about it from a mutual friend, and called Art. He got even more serious about looking after his diabetes then, and encouraged me to do the same, suggesting that I look into the "Edmonton Protocol" Islet Transplant Program at the University of Alberta. He applied, but didn't qualify, perhaps because he'd had diabetes too long, and they were looking for younger patients. He thought I should go for it, but I didn't want to jump through so many hoops, and the idea of taking anti-rejection drugs for the rest of my life held no appeal.
The last time I saw Art, he came for coffee and we had a really great visit about how he was spending his retirement, what his kids and mine were up to, an uncomplicated and loving conversation between two old friends. During these covid years, Lee and I have driven the road past Art and Jan's acreage a few times, but somehow I couldn't recognize the turn off. I thought of Art often, happy to imagine him kibbitzing with friends and neighbours, out on the golf course, or just hanging out with his wife, kids, and grandkids. I wish I'd phoned.
When I sent my New Year's letter this year, I certainly didn't expect Jan's response, telling me that she was sorry to realize that I hadn't heard that Art died last July. It was a shock to the system -- I wept on and off for the rest of the day. I'm broken-hearted that I missed his funeral, but more broken-hearted that I wasn't in touch more often in the last few years, and that such a wonderful friend who shared my "sweet secret" is gone from this world.
But believing in the "sweet hereafter," where I will see Art again, and expecting a joyous reunion when I get there, helps a lot. It's the only thing that does right now.
Art, you were a true gem, and ours was one of the most uncomplicated and loving friendships I never expected. Your warmth and kindness lives on in the hearts of all who knew you. I'm pretty sure there are dozens of kids for whom you were the closest thing they ever had to a loving dad, and that's huge! Thank you for the hugs, for being a kindred spirit, mentor, big brother, and best Ponoka friend. I will miss you until we meet again.
