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Combermere, My Alma Mater                         (Aug 11, 2010)

Combermere, My Alma Mater

The Place Where I Grew Up

Combermere. My high school. My Alma Mater. The place that took me in and rescued me from ignorance and superstition. Those hallowed walls that protected me for almost ten years, beginning when I was a mere child of 9 years, 11 months. That was my haven, where I found solace, peace and contentment to heal my battered and bruised psyche, afflictions which I suffered at the hands of my strictly christian parents.

Each day at Combermere brought a new beginning, presenting new challenges, opening new vistas, with promises of great and joyous expectations. Many who shared that space with me have attained great heights, realizing their dreams and ambitions on their native Barbados soil -- Dean Harold Crichlow and Canon DeLisle Nichols, immediately come to mind.

Others, such as I, have crossed the seas to live, work and contribute skills and talents to countries, all around the globe. A traveling friend once told me, "I went to Jordan, and there were Combermerians there. In Spain, France, Italy -- across all Europe -- I found them there as well." I smiled and said, "Seems to be a necessary ingredient, which makes those countries all the richer!"

This, then, is to my old school, Combermere, "my other mother", who weaned me on the fruits of truth, love, kindness and fair play, incorporated with the essential tools of education and enlightenment. High sounding words, you say? Not really. Our school song says it all. Initially, I had never paid much attention to the words, until one day when Bruce St. John, our form master, took us through the song, line by line, explaining the import of the words, and how it should be sung. On another occasion, he did the same with the Lord's Prayer. St. John was forever our coach, striving to help us put the 'little things' into proper perspective, so that we could better appreciate the overall scheme of things.

Here is our school song, as I remember it. These are words that I have lived by, all my life:

"Lives are in the making here,

Hearts are in the waking here,

Mighty undertaking here,

Up and on, up and on;

We are arming for the fight!

Pressing on with all our might!

Pluming wings for higher flight,

Up and on, up and on!

Up boys! Truest fame lies in high endeavor,

Play the game, keep the flame burning brightly ever!

Up boys! Truest fame lies in high endeavor,

Play the game, keep the flame burning brightly ever!

Foes in plenty we shall meet,

Hearts courageous scorn defeat,

So we press with eager feet,

Up and on, up and on!

Ever upward to the fight!

Ever upward to the light!

Ever true to God and Right,

Up and on, up and on!

Up boys! Truest fame lies in high endeavor,

Play the game, keep the flame burning brightly ever!

Up boys! Truest fame lies in high endeavor,

Play the game, keep the flame burning brightly ever!"

So, there it is, our school song -- simple, precise, zesty and to the point -- words to live by. It is my thought, and I may be wrong in this, that this anthem bestows on all those, who have ever had the privilege to sing and understand it, a special timbre, an eminent distinction, that forever unites us as one whole, inseparable family. We are, indeed, the children of Combermere! 

Understanding the words of the anthem, and trying to live by them, you can survive anything that life throws at you; until, that final moment when life says: "Show's over, old chap!"

Another song, close to my heart, especially in time of trouble and trauma, is "That's Life!", made popular by Frank Sinatra and O.C. Smith. However, it lacks the punch and persuasion of my school song, the anthem I was raised on!

So, where am I now, in the "grand scheme of things", and what have I achieved? Well, that's what this autobiography is about -- my life, traced from my birth, through private school and Combermere, into the  working world of Cable & Wireless and Rediffusion, and then across the seas to America, where I have lived and worked these past 40 years. Mind you, this is not so much a record of my achievements, it is more about the places I have been, the people I have met, and some unusual things I have done. Some folks refer to my life, as one rich in activity; but I deem it as one fraught with peril, brought on by my restless and nomadic nature.

This thing, this map of my life and sum of my achievements, has disappointed many people. Well, do not be alarmed, for I, too, am disappointed. Disappointment first came when I did not finish Upper 6th, having missed almost the entire second term because of bronchial pneumonia, that almost took me to the grave. Considering, however, that I have never traveled in the mainstream, this story of my life should not be a total surprise to anyone.

Where shall I begin? With school, of course. Combermere didn't just happen, and neither did private school, which was a necessary steppingstone.

At age 4, my father taught me how to read and write. By my 5th birthday, I could read and write, tell time and do simple arithmetic. Public school lasted but a week, and played no role in my education. Private school, from age 5 until age 9, prepared me for the entrance exams which I passed to enter Combermere.

I was a mere 9 years 11 months old, when I entered Combermere. The form was Lower Prep. Lacking the public school experience of the schoolyard throngs, the fist fights and all the hardening activities that make a schoolboy robust and ready for secondary school, I found myself in a hostile place, amidst strange characters, with whom I found it most difficult to meld. Considering further, that in private school I never mixed with more than 20 students, it should be easy to see my dilemma. In short, I was fish food for hundreds of high school sharks.

But, I had a weapon which served me well, and still does to this day, when I call upon it. I knew how to swear. At that tender age of 9, I could cuss with authority, never using the same word twice. I had learnt  from the masters in my neighborhood; of them, Saycee was the most accomplished. I had listened intently to her, digesting words, phrases and 'dynamic expressions', which flowed with ease and made my point quite potently. A senior schoolmate, in an effort to dissuade me from swearing, once remarked with biting sarcasm, that I should make a dictionary of curse words! That was Neville Badenock, a close friend who always tried to look after my best interests. But, cussing lingered; and whenever I cussed, people listened!

My most memorable cussing occasion, was when I responded to a head-slapping bully by kicking his shins, and cussing at the top of my lungs! Shocked at my outburst, the assailant quickly withdrew, and seemed to cringe at my torrent of foul language. A crowd gathered; among them the Head Prefect, who demanded an explanation for my rage. I explained that I was tired of the hooligans of the school slapping my clean-shaved head, and identified several culprits who were present. He ordered them all to 'stand down' and refrain from slapping the new boys. Those who persisted would be sent to detention, he warned. He also cautioned me about my use of obscene language, and suggested that I modify my speech from that day forth. That Prefect's name was Harold Crichlow, who later became Dean of St Michael's Cathedral.

I am an old fellow now, 70 is close by; so I'll drift all the way back to Combermere as I knew it, when I first entered school. As I recall, Combermere looked out onto Roebuck Street. Across the street from us,  was the Modern High School, with headmaster Louis Lynch. On the back side of Combermere was Harrison's College, a wire fence separating the two playgrounds.

There were two entrance driveways that combined to make a roundabout, in front of the school. The left driveway separated the headmaster's residence, or some such building, from the front of the school. The right driveway continued to the back fence.

Our cafeteria, a wooden structure, was separated from the main school building by the right driveway. There were two porters, Headley and another (a name I can't recall), who rang the bell to denote end of class periods, as well as lunchtime. At lunch time, there was such a mad rush for the cafeteria, that the new boys had to stand aside for fear of being trampled. The first time I witnessed it, I was horrified, thinking I was witnessing an invading army of barbarians. As I remember, they took no money at the cafeteria counter; students had to purchase coupons, from Ms. Maloney, the cashier and supervisor, for presentation at the counter.

A timid fellow, I quickly made up my mind that I would rather die of hunger, than be trampled by the mad lunchtime horde. "To hell with it," I said aloud, "I'd rather starve."

"There's no need to, old chap," came the voice of Maurice Ince. "There's food, by the playground, near the fence. There are hawkers there!"

Thanking him profusely, I sped off, holding my shilling securely in my pocket. There they were, women sitting in makeshift chairs, their trays stacked on wooden boxes, with displays of food, drinks, nuts and sweets of various kinds. There were no prices posted; and remembering that Saycee, in our neighborhood, was herself a hawker, one that could not be trusted -- I decided to play it safe with those women. I always stood by, listened, compared prices, and then made my choice. It was no bargain, as I do recall, but I did satisfy my hunger, without the chance of being run over. Best of all, the food was home cooked and tasty, prepared the way my mother made it -- far better than the standard commercial fare of the cafeteria.

I should explain the menu. The word 'cutter' meant sandwich, so a 'cheese cutter' was a cheese sandwich. There were cheese cutters, pear (avocado) cutters, fish cutters. Then there was 'a loaf and two', two spicy cod fish cakes on a loaf of bread. Also, they were roasted peanuts in little brown paper bags, peanut brittle, and sugar coconut cakes, among other things. There were drinks too, all homemade; lemonade, ginger beer, and mauby. And, some ambitious souls sold butts of sugarcane.

Now that I look back on it, I can't help but wonder how we never got sick, or ptomained as they called it, from eating fried fish that was neither refrigerated or reheated, having been cooked hours before, and left standing in the tropic temperatures of 85-degrees-F or higher. Were we tougher then? Or was the food better? I cannot say, but I do know one thing: if there was ever something to make one sick, ever something 'to be caught', I would have caught it, and I'm not referring to a cricket ball!

From the day that Maurice pointed me to my new lunch counter, he and I became good playground friends, not getting into the rough and tumble of the mix, but discussing various topics pertinent to our school work. I was shocked, one day, to discover that Maurice, the music student, played field hockey after school. What a brave soul, I thought, considering that he had a glass eye! Oh, I should mention that he had a bigger brother, in 5th form I believe, a brawny fellow whom I always remembered to address as Mr. Ince!

But the old Combermere was doomed. Where Roebuck Street and Halls Road met, flooding occurred every time there were torrential downpours. The surrounding area, including the Combermere school grounds tended to flood. At the beginning of my third year, cracks started to develop in the school walls, and became progressively worse. The school was condemned and we were moved to the Drill Hall Barracks, near the Garrison Race Track.

My Prep days and first form days were spent at Roebuck Street. At the Drill Hall, I moved into Lower-2, because my grades were poor, and as far as teachers and the headmaster were concerned I was not a serious student. However, my problem was not a bad attitude, but rather lack of financial support. My parents were quite poor and they found it exceedingly difficult to pay my school fees and buy new textbooks every term. A neighbor and good friend, Aunt Babb (not our relative) always chipped in and helped. In fact, it was Aunt Babb who paid my entire private school tuition.

But, in Lower-2, all was not lost. There was Bruce St. John, form master, English teacher, and in my case, mentor. No one knew of the special interest St. John took in my education. We had private chats. He told me that I had potential; that I was especially strong in English, and that I should concentrate on the other subjects. He said if I buckled down and worked hard, I could top the class!

Bringing to class the daily newspaper, The Advocate, St. John would have us read aloud and discuss editorials and articles, dealing with current affairs. Then, he took us to join the Bridgetown Public Library, to broaden our knowledge by reading books on a variety of topics. He especially wanted me to to join, he said, because "it would help me reach beyond the limits of the classroom". Most of the class became library members and walked away with books of fiction.

Not knowing what to choose, I asked Marguerite, my spiritual mentor, for suggestions. She pointed me to the Adult section, suggesting Philosophy. Huh? Philosophy? Yes, indeed! Walking down the aisle, I stopped at an author, C.E.M. Joad, "Guide to Philosophy". I ran down the index, and each topic grew more interesting. "My God," I thought to myself, "this is just what I need!"

I took it to the Desk, but the library attendant said I was "too young to borrow from the Adult Section."

So, I read that book in the library, every evening after school. That first evening, I read for almost two hours. I simply could not put the book down! Food for thought -- theories, ideas, suggestions, doctrines -- wow! I didn't agree with all of it, but it was a starting point, my springboard toward self-realization. I made more notes on Philosophy than I did on school work! My next book by Joad was: "How to Write,  Think and Speak Correctly".

Then followed Jean Paul Sartre, the french Philosopher, tough for a beginner. Immanuel Kant was easier reading, though like Sartre, he was too deep for a green Philosopher. I longed for another, similar to Joad  -- modern, contemporary, yet robust. Enter Bertrand Russell -- YES! Russell's "History of Western Philosophy" was my roadmap, helping me to explore areas I didn't know existed!      

The study of philosophy did make a big difference in my outlook, which changed drastically. I buckled down, and started to work hard. Every day at lunch, I would try to do next day's homework, using borrowed text books which I didn't own. Unfinished homework would be completed next morning, before the school day began.

I came first each term in Lower-2, and first each term in every form after that -- in 3rd,4th, 5th and Lower 6th.

Edwin Pollard, Delisle Nicholls, Wendell McClean, Herbie Arthur, Greg Edwards, Elsworth Young -- these are some of the guys who studied side by side with me. They witnessed my banter, my cussing, my sense of humor, my argumentative self, and my downright refusal to blindly accept anything I was told. But none of them knew that I was studying Philosophy, on my own.

As I progressed through 4th and 5th, Rock 'n Roll seemed to infect me, and I couldn't help but dance to the music. There are other students whom I should mention here, members of our "classroom band of Rock 'n Roll" -- Hartley Richards, Bynoe, Maurice Ince, Herbie Arthur, and one Joe Taylor. At break, or lunch, whenever time permitted we all got together to play and sing the hits of the day. Elvis was my favorite, and I did his crazy dance. Other times, I would sing a high-pitched falsetto (thanks to school choir practice) to capture the mood of Jackie Wilson, and other stars who sang above the clouds. Hartley Richards, a baritone, sang Pat Boone songs. Maurice Ince, the music maker, had the unique ability of creating instrument sounds, similar to Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong, while he piped the music through the left corner of his mouth! Herbie Arthur always provided the lists of new songs, and who sang them, and Bynoe brought in his transistor radio, no bigger than a check-book. Good days, glorious days, oh so happy days!

But then, suddenly, something happened, and I just could not understand it. Maurice Ince just up and died. I never got to know the reason why. Also, there were two others, not members of our band, but schoolmates, who passed away just about the same time: Yearwood, a student from St. George, a member of the violin class; and Williams, a piano student, who had become a good friend of mine. I was confused, concerned and quite worried for a while, because they were all music students. Was heaven short of young musicians, with a quota that needed to be filled?

Then, there were evenings after school, when after visiting the library to browse and read, I went jukebox dancing. A quarter (5 tunes on the box!) -- that's all it took to get me started. "Long Tall Sally," "Jailhouse Rock", "Treat me Nice" -- all the 50's hits from Elvis, the Drifters, the Coasters and other groups; in fact, most of the songs were written by Lieber and Stoller. Crowds would gather, and some folks would put coins in the jukebox, just to see me dance like Elvis.

There was this school girl, a Green Lynch student, who liked to watch me dance; she would wait for me and hold my school books, until I was through making a fool of myself. Her name was Daphne. One evening, a Friday it was, she said to me: "This is my last evening, darling. I leave for Trinidad tomorrow, to live with mother. I'll miss your dancing." She kissed me on the cheek, than ran away! It was only then  that I realized that I cared for her! Barely 15, what did I know of such things as 'love' and 'caring for'?

And, I should not forget my haircuts, self-styled (or shall I say self-inflicted) haircuts, based on African tribal styles. Haircuts which I saw, time and again, in my dream-travels with Marguerite. The other students laughed, but I did not care, because to me they were meaningful haircuts, representing the glory days of Shaka Zulu and other African chiefs. Of African descent, I was proud to wear those haircuts, despite the mockery and sometimes insulting comments!

More than 20 years later, I smiled when a wave of 'black think' swept Barbados, and the haircuts that had previously made me the laughing stock of Combermere, had suddenly become the fashion! So much so, that when I returned to Barbados in 1985, and did not sport an 'African cut', I was given hell for not paying respect to my heritage, with the appropriate haircut. My reply: "I did that years ago, at Combermere. Now I am pass that stage. I have never needed others to set examples for me to follow!"

I should mention here that I was rather poor in Sports. I was an awkward fellow, and not given to playground activities. While the others played, I would think and reason on Philosophy! It was Philosophy that helped me put all my pre-school and early-school experiences into perspective. Gradually, I built a wall around myself, determined not to be influenced by other people's desires, hopes or achievements. My life was my own, to steer where I chose. Thus, I learnt to keep my own counsel, and to avoid the herd mentality.

While in 5th form, working towards my Oxford & Cambridge O-levels, one day I had a conversation with a teacher, whom I had never studied with. He began by congratulating me for coming first in every class, since Lower-2. Then he added that no one had ever beaten Edwin Pollard before, but that I had done so consistently since 3rd form.

He inquired as to what my plans were after leaving school. I told him I had no idea, and that the reality I was staring in the face did not look too promising. Seeing that my family was so poor, even if I excelled all the way to 6th form and passed all my A-levels, what then? He suggested that I might teach like Messrs. Newton and Crichlow did, before they went on to University. I replied that it was a "challenge of Mind". He asked me to explain. "A mental journey, I'll meditate on it and see where life leads."

Suddenly he asked me "What is your first name?" I told him it was Joseph.

"My God, it's you!" he exclaimed. "We all thought Joseph was the last name."

I asked him what I was supposed to have done. "Philosophy," he said, "you are the student who engaged the librarian at the Public Library in a discussion about the "Analysis of Mind". She was so impressed, that she commended us on our Philosophy classes. But, that's not a subject which we teach. We were discussing it in the staff quarters just recently."

I admitted that it was me, and asked him not to tell anyone, since I didn't want to be called a "brain", as he had put it. But, he must have mentioned it to my English teacher, who engaged me in private conversation days later. He asked if I was ready to take the O-levels. Answering "yes", I explained further that I was only taking 5, not 7. He seemed surprised.

In response to his question, "Why only 5?", I told him that 2 subjects held no interest for me. History and English Literature. It was useless for me to learn the history of Britain and Europe. To me, history of the  Caribbean was more important; in fact, it was vital to the education of every West Indian, and more so to the economic future of the region. As to English Literature, it was OK, but it was "weak" -- too many old English authors like Chaucer and Blake. Old English and poems did not excite me. He saw my point, he said, but there was nothing he could do to influence the curriculum.

So, I took 5 and passed all 5. Oddly enough, the week I took the O-levels, I was ill; wheezing so severely, that I could hardly breathe. The day before the exams started, Aunt Babb took me to a doctor who gave me a Tedral-oil injection in my hip. Oh, did it hurt! But within a few hours my breathing got easier, and by next day wheezing had abated. I couldn't run or exert myself and I had to stay away from dust.

While we were at the Drill Hall Barracks, the new Combermere school was being built at Waterford. Upon its completion, we relocated there. I never understood why there was a Lower 6th form. That's where we took the Alternate Ordinary (A-O) levels. No one jumped from 5th form to Upper 6th.

In Lower 6th, I studied three subjects: Latin, French and Geography. That's where I got into Roman History. And, though I had turned my back on English History, I enjoyed Roman History, Gibbon's Decline and Fall of The Roman Empire, because it dovetailed very nicely with the Latin classics, Cicero in Catalinam, Caesar's Conquests, Ovid's Metamorphoses, and Virgil's Aeneid.

After passing my three A-O levels, I advanced to Upper 6th, and completed the first term. During the holiday break between the first and second term in Upper 6th, I met an American tourist, a philosopher from America -- in the public library, of all places! The full account is charted later in a section, "About Beverley & Philosophy". For several days, we discussed, argued about and wrestled with Philosophy, the American culture and its effect upon the world, as well as such topics as women's rights and segregation. We became fast, close friends and, by that pact, established a relationship which we said would last forever. An extra bonus: she gave me scores of notes on Bertrand Russell's lectures and his other writings.

Maybe the enlightenment was too much for my mind and body, and I caught pneumonia at the beginning of the second term. Sick for the duration of term two, I never returned to school after I recovered. I had been urged by headmaster Major Noot, and several teachers, that I should resume my studies after recovery. But, I took a job with Cable and Wireless, instead. My decision -- it was a matter of finances. Where would I go after upper 6th? University? Where would the money come from? True, I  could have worked and saved, as many others did; but my circumstances did not allow that. For, I was still very poor, 'without a pot to piss in!'

Rather than advance, form by form, through my school years -- let me just mention teachers, who taught me, and their impact on my life and learning. We spoke of Bruce St. John before; now, to the others.

Major Noot, Headmaster, french teacher, and in my case, mentor. I am sure that shocks a lot of folks -- Major Noot, being my mentor! It happened in lower 6th, when he taught me french. He could never understand why I never had a textbook. Sometimes I had the nerve to borrow his! Impressed with my work, he inquired as to what my problems were. Discovering my predicament, "we have no money, sir", he made arrangements with Mr. Brathwaite, the bookstore manager, to provide me with all the 6th form books I needed, with my agreement "to pay whenever I can". That was the first time I ever had all my text books! Major Noot didn't teach, he "explained graphically". He was like an artist who drew objects, rather than use words, to demonstrate his point. The best french I ever learnt! When he retired, he urged me to continue to Upper 6th, but I let him down. I found a job, instead!

Vernon 'Bull' Williams, Deputy Headmaster, a teacher who didn't talk at you, or to you, but one who shared ideas with you. He took the subject out of the text book, put it on your desk, for you to peruse, understand and consume -- no matter what he taught, that was his style.

Jack Adams, math teacher, field hockey coach. Often, I mimicked him, in his absence of course. But one day, he came up behind me and caught me in the act. Smiling, he cautioned me not to test his "Irish temper!" Math became a living object in Mr. Adams' classroom. It was not just numbers, equations, or geometric theorems, it was almost an organism to be poked and probed in order to reach the correct result.

Karl Broodhagen, artist, art teacher. Back in those days, I never valued art. But, I should have paid closer attention. Broodhagen was a portrait master. It is said that master artists reveal hidden traits when they paint a portrait. Broodhagen was no different. I could have learnt a lot from him. He had painted several students, whose portraits adorned the walls of the art classroom. I remember one portrait in particular. When I first saw it, I said aloud, "My God, he looks like a girl!" Broodhagen replied, "He's very handsome, and you are jealous!" Later on, it turned out that I was right. Broodhagen had indeed captured that hidden trait.

Ms. Escofrey (did I spell the name correctly?), art teacher. At the new Waterford school, she replaced Mr. Broodhagen. A french lady, I recall, attractive and very European. The first time I saw her, I suddenly had a feeling that I knew what lust truly meant! I never attended her classes; or did I? or could it be that I was so mesmerized, that all I brought away was the memory of her beauty?

Frank Collymore, a story teller, short story writer, with a camera for a mind that took clips of Bajan society, at every level. Clips that he transferred into words to make us see ourselves more clearly. Colly made teaching fun by finding the heart of the story in every subject.

Laddies Goddard, geography master. Tall, broad-shouldered, an atlas for a mind. He was geography itself, in all its finer details. The first real weather man I knew, lecturing us about clouds, barometric pressures - high and low, hurricanes and monsoons! An unusually high passing grade (O & C) for all his students! One particular, or should I say, peculiar thing I remember about Mr. Goddard, is his way of pointing with his middle finger, instead of with his index finger. It was a sad day when he got married, and left Combermere!

Mr. Parker, geography replacement for Laddies Goddard. A different approach; his strength was hands-on training. Field trips to all points of the island, teaching about vegetation, rock formation (faults etc.), soil types, and erosion (types and preventive measures). There was weather, too, climatic zones, disturbances (hurricanes, typhoons), and man's relation/adaptation to each climate. Young, but thorough -- that was Mr. Parker.

Gerald Hudson, music teacher, school choir director. An Englishman with a pipe, and a piano, talented fingers and a discriminating ear! I wish now that I hadn't goofed off, as much as I did, in music appreciation. The little that I brought away still serves me well. If only I had paid closer attention! Each year, Mr. Hudson led the Combermere Boys Choir to first place in the inter-school competition. Fingers dancing on the keys! -- that's how I remember him!

James A. Millington, musician par-excellence, music teacher -- piano and violin. I tried out for his violin class, and when my notes twanged instead of squealed, he gently said to me, upon examining my sweaty fingers, "Put down my violin, Shakespeare, sweaty fingers don't play here!" Oh, how I envied those guys who made such sweet music at the JAM sessions! Mr. Millington was a master of his craft, with a gifted daughter who followed close behind him.

Ronnie Hughes, historian, teacher. Outstanding record for almost 100 percent O-level passes in History, each year. We never got along. My argument that we should have been studying 'History of the Caribbean' instead of the Warner, Martin & Muir "History of the World", (which to my mind was only good for anchoring a ship!) -- was not accepted by Mr. Hughes. He was further antagonized by the fact, that I never did have a history textbook. So, he made me a deal: "When I come into this history class, you leave." The deal was sealed, for I could not refuse it.

Charlie Pilgrim (Charles William Archibald Pilgrim), an all-round teacher capable of teaching almost any subject. He gave me my first good grip in Latin. He had nicknames for several students, he called me "Tail Tail". Once, he said to me, "You've got a keen mind, Tail Tail. It sometimes frightens me. One so young, with such daring thoughts!" Life was for living and that's what Charlie did very well. A master photographer, philosopher, and a playboy.

Arthur Sealy, form master, latin and scripture teacher. He knew the subject better than the subject knew itself! Simplicity in making ideas clear! Encouraging us to think beyond the known limits of any topic. He taught scripture (The New Testament) from a philosophical, rather than a clerical standpoint. He promised to 'disown' me, and he did. Why? I fell sick and missed the second term in upper 6th. He urged me to continue the following year, after I had recovered. I bowed out and took a job at Cable & Wireless. In August 1985, when I vacationed in Barbados, and Herbie Arthur took me to see him, he said he "didn't know me!" I smiled, and in my heart, congratulated him on being a man to his word! I'll always remember his statement: "Schooling has nothing to do with getting a good job, it's all about enlightenment!"

Harry Sealy, physical education, ball games. I have never known a student who complained about Harry Sealy. I don't think it was because we loved him, it was that we respected him for his calmness of authority, strength of character and fair play. Here was a teacher who was always in control, and the students felt it, knew it and responded accordingly. Even in the heat of games, everyone kept calm -- a reflection of the man in charge! Solid choice for a physical education teacher! Hats off to Mr. Sealy!

Sam Corbin. He never taught me; but I should mention him, because we conversed now and then. He taught students in the commercial stream (typing, shorthand, etc.). And, at morning prayers, he played the piano.

Of worthy note, too, is Ms. Mottley, school secretary. Don't let the name fool you, there was nothing motley about the lady. A fine young woman, whom I doted on, at break time and at stolen moments between classes. I particularly remember how she hissed my name, whenever I mildly exasperated her: "Taaylerrr!" She was a good sport, a caring soul, who endured my boyhood pranks with dignity. I so loved her!

There may be others, whom I have missed, but it is not intentional. At age 69, I'm lucky to have recalled so much!

Forgotten Bits and Pieces

Here are a few memorable snippets of school-related stuff, items which give flavor to the mix I knew as school life.

Sargent and Ajax:

Sargent was a bully, who preyed on younger students. "Ajax" Skeete was a bodybuilder, nicknamed after a comic character. When Ajax told Sargent to refrain from pestering other kids, Sargent challenged him and found himself knocked out upon the ground, with two teeth missing. Sargent was expelled for being a known bully. As the headmaster put it, "Sargent was a stupid ass!"

Field and Track:

I can vividly remember Buggy Morris, flying down the track to win the sprint. Then, there was "Ardena" Harris, too, who ran the longer distances and, like the racehorse whom he was nicknamed after, left the field in the dust, as he approached the finish line. Or, Kennedy, performing on the long-jump and the high-jump, when he became Victor Ludorum. God! what athletes!

Cricket, lovely cricket:

     People who've heard of Wes Hall, think of him on the cricket field, playing Test Matches for Barbados and the West Indies teams. But, as a schoolboy, I watched him on the playground, running a quarter of a mile to pitch a ball that could rip the bat right out of your hands! Yes sir! He started at Combermere and went on to conquer the World of Cricket!

     And, there's another incident that has always been stuck in my mind. A young batsman, leaning over his bat, waiting for the pitch. As the ball approaches, he rears up on his back leg, and in lazy, majestic fashion, as if he has all the time in the world, calmly smashes the ball the the boundary line for four.

     "Good shot!" someone cries out.

     "What is that fellow's name?" I ask, being a junior, unfamiliar with the players. 

     "Lashley," Mr. Perkins calls out. "Patrick Lashley. He's got promise, that kid."

     About ten years later, I would come to know and work with Mr. Lashley, side by side, at Cable and Wireless. Just as Wes Hall did, Patrick did go on to play for the West Indies Cricket Team.

Cricket helmets:

     I also clearly recall the occasion when I, a silly kid of 12 years old, said aloud, as a group of us watched a cricket match on the school's playground, "The batsmen should wear helmets."

     I was responding to the sight of a fast delivery, which nicked the bat, and sharply rose perilously close to the batsman's head.

     "Ooooh!" sighed the crowd, much relieved, as the batsman deftly ducked to save himself.

     Cecil Gadsby, a senior, avid lover and player of the sport, snapped at me: "Cricket is a gentleman's game you fool, why should they wear helmets? Do you think it's mining? Shut up, if you don't know what you are talking about!"

     Nowadays, I see cricket batsmen wearing helmets. I wonder where Mr. Gadsby is these days.

This was Combermere, my school, my other mother. Combermere, the place where I grew up.

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