Peterborough Teachers College - PTC Yearbook (Peterborough, Ontario Canada)

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Our Delegates Chosen to represent Peterborough Normal School, Miss Mary King and Mr. Bruce Curtis attended the At Home of the Toronto Normal School. Misses Betsy English, Berenice Spencer, Bernice White and Mr. Don Nicholls were elected to attend the O.E.A. Convention in Toronto during Easter week. At the time of writing no report of their activities was available. Critical Times at Normal OT SO LONG ago they were known as critic teachers . To-day they have assumed the more pleasant sounding alias of practice school staff . Admittedly the latter designation is less forbidding to the newly arrived Normalites. For the first few weeks of Normal School life the student teachers are not exposed to the mercies of the august group upon which their destinies may largely depend. Then all too suddenly the first lesson descends upon us and we all come face-to-face with reality. A few lucky CD students had a Normal School Master present on this initial venture also. That first lesson! The practice teacher, who seemed such a lovely person on observation day, suddenly takes on for us the appearance of a stern-faced judge, whom you can see rather hazily at the back of the roorn, over the sea of pupils, writing furiously to record your teaching errors .... And then it is all over. You grope your way to the back and nervously await the sentence. After an interminable period, school is dismissed and the critical moment arrives. We've had it. What did you like about your lesson? , we have since learned, is the stock question employed by practice teachers to begin a criticism. Polite- ness is the better part of valour on such occasions, so student number one mumbles an unintelligible remark about, It could have been better . After learning the students' opinion of the lesson, we realize what rank amateurs we are when the practice teacher tosses away the disguise and becomes a critic in the flesh. So many faults we didn't think one person could possibly have. Your introduction should have been a story . . . don't ask, 'How many have seen one'?' 'Can someone tell me?, 'What about this?' . . . did I hear you say, 'I have saw' . . . use more expression . . . your summary could have been better . . . why didn't you use print script . . . But I liked your lesson. You have a nice manner with the children. So on and etc. With spirits rising and falling, alternately, as the practice teachers continue to disect our lessons, week after week, we approach the end of the fall term with misgivings. Finally the big moment arrives for a glance at our teaching graph. Hearts beating wildly as Mr. Copp methodically thumbs through the pages of the Doomsday Book, we offer a belated prayer as he says, ah! here it is. Hoping for the best, we take a quick glance at the graph and jittery as We may be, try to picture the lessons as they appear. Why it seems to zig where I thought it should have zagged! And it actually seems to be ascending! Suddenly Normal School becomes a much better place, the Masters are all grand fellows and the practice teachers really aren't critics. They're just practice teachers! -J IM COVERT. Page Fifteen

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My First Lesson HE ASSIGNMENTS are in! There's mine! Grade Eight: Topic- Weed seed dispersal , What a cinch! and what's more there's a whole week-eight days to be exact-for preparation. This Normal School life certainly is going to be an easy one. There was only one Haw in this set up-the lesson plan. Oh well, fifteen minutes or less will have that out of the way and then, clear sailing for the rest of the week. Clear sailing indeed, a tornado couldn't have torn by more quickly. Before I knew it, I found myself in the room where I was to teach my first lesson. Was I worried? Not on your life. I had really outdone myself for this, my first lesson, and had spent hours gathering weed seeds for concrete material, and my lesson plan, except for neatness, was in perfect shape. Time couldn't pass soon enough until I would be teaching. There is the bell and here corne the pupils. Little Grade VIII pupils are they! They look big enough to be University students. Surely I don't have to stand up in front of them and try to teach! Strange, I don't seem to know my work. One short week certainly isn't long enough to prepare a lesson, and such a big topic as t'Weed Seed Dispersal ! Why I . . . Next Lesson snaps me to my feet. I run the gauntlet of piercing eyes to the front of the room, turn like a caged beast and await the death blow. What a ghastly silence! Is that someone at the door or is it really my knees? What is wrong with my tongue? Why is it so dry and lifeless? And my jaw, why won't it close? How did my introduction begin? Oh if I could only remember! Then to my utter amazement and relief a strange quavering squeaky voice whispers Nature it seems .... and I am away faway out of this world, in factj. What am I saying? Make a note? That means then that I arn through. Oh but am I! I am through with the lesson perhaps but not with the humili- ation and disgust of finding out that my spelling on the blackboard has to be corrected by a pupil and that concrete material had remained forgotten, overlooked, and untouched. Perhaps you ask: t'What of the criticism? I can't remember that. You see, in my already deflated condition, the added knowledge that Mr. Copp had witnessed that slaughter, had left me sans breath. sans strength, sans dignity, sans everything, except a faint hope that if I really worked this year at Normal, I might learn how to teach school. This was the beginning-typical, I am told. ' -ROSS FLEMING. MY PHOTOGRAPH I had my picture takenk-I! They say the camera cannot lie. Alas! I have a twisted eye, A nose too long, a brow too high, A mouth that sags into a sigh. My face looks like a custard pie That sorneone's dropped right from the sky. They say the camera cannot Hel Can this be I? Alas! Oh, my! -ISABEL HEFFERNAN. Page Fourteen

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THOUGHTS OF A STUDENT When lesson plans are failures And everyth1ng's a mess, I wonder why I came here, Up here,-to P.N.S.? My practice teachers haunt me. My graph goes up and down, And from the eyes of masters, I only get a frown. We're taught the perfect lesson. fThat's in the perfect schooll. But put it into practice And try to keep the rule! The little brat who's hiding Behind an angel face, Is just the one who's throwing Soft spitballs into space! But just the same I like itg The leisure time, and all The hours I spend in cheering Our stars of basketball. The projects and the craftvvork, The music and the fun, .lust make our Normal family A great big happy one! But most of all we cherish The friendships that we make. Some may be everlasting, The kind that never break. For next year, when we're tired Of books and classrooms drear, We'll wish for fellow students And P.N.S. so dear. -IRENE WALTERS. Valedictory Lindy Mclntosh HE DAYS grow longer, but time grows shorter, for 'tis Spring, and Spring has only one meaning-the completing of the term at P.N.S. T. B. Gleave once wrote, In all the world there is no place so dear as home, and since that memorable day of September 10, 1946, when We were but Strangers in a strange land being made very Welcome, P.N.S. has spelled t'home . Do you recall Miss Johnson's words? You will leave Normal School with tears in your eyes.' And shall we? Ah, yes! But will we remember P.N.S. with tears in our eyes ? Ah, no! As one wee lady would declare. Page Sixteen