Crossroads

My name is Elvyn Baldwin. I know, it’s a strange name. I often get mail for Evelyn, or Alvin. At least I’m unique. It’s September 5, 1964 in the parking lot at Bishop’s and I’m mentally preparing for my first day of school in 15 years; 15 years of farming, fencing, fathering, fish hatcheries, 15 years of physical work. What am I doing here?

At first the idea was a lark, which began the day I was transferred from the safe confines of Baldwin’s Mills to the Natural Resources depot in Sherbrooke. I had known commuting would be no picnic, but I had not imagined how difficult it would be; long days in the truck on the road, instead of being back at the fish hatchery five minutes from home. That job itself had seemed like a betrayal. You see, for my dad the fish hatchery was the enemy. It represented the big bad Duplessis government that had closed his sawmill, and changed village life forever. I sensed my father’s disapproval, but at least I was just down the road from the farm, from Jane and our five children.

I remember thinking that if my sister Eunice could be a teacher, so could I. Getting the application from Bishop’s was easy. Filling out the form was another story, especially the question “Why do you want to become a teacher”. I couldn’t very well answer:

• Because nothing else seems to be working

• Because I hate driving to work in Sherbrooke

• Because I’m sick of looking at fish all day

• Because I have five children now and farming doesn’t pay the bills

• Because something is missing in my life.

With my wife Jane’s help I finished the application form. She neatly typed it, and then I put it in the mail.

Six months later I’m here at 8.05 in the morning, in an empty classroom alone. Twice I opened my notebook and checked the room number, J 20, and checked my watch. I was about to do it again when people began drifting in, until the room was full. They all look so young, so confident. The words of a poem popped into his head, ”When all at once I saw a crowd, a host of golden daffodils”. Where did that come from? What was I thinking; 39 years old and back in school. I didn’t like writing essays at Mcgill 15 years ago. What makes me think that I can do it here?

That first day was a blur; meeting professors, finding my way around campus, buying books, and reading course descriptions. The only good part was meeting all these new people. That I can manage. I like finding out where they come from, who they are related to, what church they attend. I find it easier to remember all those personal details. I know that given the opportunity people like to talk about themselves. Why is it so much more difficult to remember educational theories?

At the end of the day driving home, I’m exhausted. This is more tiring than working in the woods for twelve hours, a prospect that awaits me on Saturday as I begin to cut firewood for the fall. When I get home there’s still animals to feed, wood to split, chores to do, and five loud children bouncing off the farmhouse walls, before I get started on the two hours of homework.

Yes, I thought, I’m exhausted, but somehow excited too. I can do this! I can manage a year of lectures and assignments. I can become a teacher, even at thirty-nine.

There’s more to life than driving a fish hatchery truck to Sherbrooke every day. A new world is opening up, and I like this brave new world.