Toronto, Edmonton and elsewhere. 1988 – 2018

 Music pounded, tip-toed, beckoned within and aria’d out of my classroom all day, every day for the 30 years I taught elementary school in Canada; and while my priority was, of course, the curriculum, I also reached across borders and genres to fill the year with melodic memories.

From Strauss to the Stones, I jammed my classroom with music, matching songs and symphonies to subjects, activities, and transitions. As I worked through the lessons, themes and seasons, and the personalities that made each year unique, my musical choices gave me a sense of continuity and tradition.

There was the Friday song; a fast-paced, thumping beat by the Trammps.  When Disco Inferno rocked through the classroom and slid out the door, the students knew it was Friday and the weekend was but a heartbeat away.  They may have laughed at the funny suits of the ’70s, but the opening beats wriggling up their backbones were enough to draw even older, past students to my door, smiling in anticipation of a few days of late nights and even later mornings.

Then, there was the gym warm-up song. Everyone jogged to the throbbing Motown beat of the Supremes, You Can’t Hurry Love.  To this day when I meet some of my former students in stores and cafes, they will express an almost irresistible urge to break into a run, if they hear this song drumming from some station.  I smile, for it is a kind of immortality to be so remembered.

On St. Patrick’s Day, Irish jig music played as the students rushed to the room and stood aghast at the sight of the destruction caused by the mischievous leprechaun who always managed to hang shoes from the ceiling light fixtures.

The Phantom of the Opera filled the room during our Halloween fashion show, and Vivaldi’s Winter gave us the ambiance we needed to call forth our creative snowy masterpieces of blowing blizzards and crackling icicles.

Bob Marley’s lounging rhythms helped us survive the brutal temperatures of January, Edith Piaf’s impossible rolling accents accompanied our French projects, and the startling and shrill sounds of Peking Opera ended our celebratory dip into Chinese New Year.

Throat-singing, indigenous drumming, Pavarotti and Elvis; and that was only the start of it.  By June we were ready for summer and our last song, Europe’s, The Final Countdown.  For the last seven days, it was the first song they listened to as they elbowed their way into the classroom.  Of course, like all good teachers, I opted for the Apollo 13 version and threw in a few mini lessons in space travel and the way of the ’70s.

I will end with one last song in mind.  It’s a personal favourite and it always set the mood for the day ahead. Louis Armstrong’s What a Wonderful World. For decades it was the very first song I played in the early morning, enjoying the hush before the hallways came alive with running feet and animated chatter. It was a soothing way to start each day; centering my energies, all my aspirations reflected in the mirror-like, morning calm before the wild winds burst through the door…

And I think to myself, what a wonderful world…

 

Stereo Story # 770

 

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Violet writes from Alberta, Canada: memoir, travel, music, fiction for a variety of magazines and newspapers. In this instance, she remains surprised that the music she disdained in her youth now warrants a second listen. This isn’t the first time. With age, her ears seem to have acquired some heart.