WHERE ARE THEY NOW? #15 ~ ROY HENRY VICKERS

Next up in my, "Where Are They Now" series is PHS alum, Roy Henry Vickers. Canadian artist Roy Henry Vickers is best known around the world for his limited edition prints. He is also an accomplished carver, design advisor of prestigious public spaces, a sought-after keynote speaker, publisher and author of several successful books.

In addition, he is a recognized leader in the First Nations community, and a tireless spokesperson for recovery from addictions and abuse.

Roy has received many awards and honours for his art and community involvement. Among them are a hereditary chieftainship and several hereditary names he has received from Northwest Coast First Nations.

Roy had and has many relatives who have attended Prairie over the years and he speaks of his student work at Prairie where he wrapped insulation around steam pipes in the newly formed steam tunnels.

An astounding fact for such a prominent, world class talent as Roy, is that he is colour blind. When you see his work you would never guess that he has that condition.

If you are ever in Toffino, Roy's Gallery and Museum are, "must sees"!! More than 500,000 visitors a year from around the world visit it each year and it is one of the area's main attractions.

THE PEANUT AND THE HAMMERHEAD

Every school needs a teacher like Allan Bienert. Mr. Bienert was not just a good teacher, he was a GREAT teacher! He taught English, Creative Writing and Creative Speech. If he had taught basket weaving I would have signed up. Al Bienert loved teaching and I knew it. We all knew it. He was funny, creative and witty. He would challenge each of us to reach beyond our comfort zones and excel. Whether we were writing short stories, debating or giving a speech, Mr. Bienert cheered us on to be our best. He was one of my teachers who encouraged me to write and speak. His "good natured bets" were legendary and if he lost one, he always seemed to get off the hook on a technicality!

Born in Leduc, AB, Allan finished High School in Edmonton. He attended Prairie with the intention of becoming a missionary with the SIM in Africa, but due to a skin condition, he was unable to go. After university, he taught school in St. Paul and Edmonton before moving with his family to Three Hills where he was a teacher at the Three Hills School from 1967 to 1975. In the fall of 1976 he began teaching at Prairie High School.

In our town, court was held in the provincial building once a month on a Thursday. If you were in one of Mr. Bienert's classes on that Thursday, off you went to court. He loved the banter between the lawyers and the crown. He reveled in watching the judge and seeing if he could predict what verdict would be reached. We loved any excuse to get out of class, but this was a real bona fide learning experience.

Court was not the only thing Mr. Bienert would round us up for. There was also hockey. Whole car loads of students, both boys and girls, would trek to hockey games all over the province. With Mr. Bienert at the helm you were always guaranteed to have some type of an adventure.

Mr. Bienert was not a casual hockey fan. This man LOVED the game of hockey. If there was a puck dropping within a hundred mile radius of our small prairie town you might just find Allan Bienert in the stands. Whether at a game locally, in Red Deer, Drumheller or Calgary he enjoyed and appreciated all levels of hockey. Both Ken and Keith, Allan's sons were solid hockey players and enjoyed the game as much as their Dad. Mr. Bienert also coached the game and I had the privilege of being coached by him for at least one season.

Attending a hockey game out of town was a big deal for us kids growing up. When we were quite small we would usually get to at least one Calgary Centennial game a year. Sometimes we would go several times and watch players like Danny Gare, Mike Rogers and Ron Homenuke compete at a Major Junior League level. As a side note, these three players all went on to play in the NHL. The old theatre organ would wail, the crowds would go crazy, the players would fight and we would have us a good 'ole hockey game. More importantly we witnessed some outstanding junior hockey, played by young athletes in their prime hoping to make it to the big show. After waiting for autographs at the end of the game, we would head off to Peter's Drive-In. A double cheeseburger and large shake were the order of the day before returning back to Three Hills. Why Peter's has never become a franchise, I will never know.

Christmas of 1977 was the inaugural year for what has become the very prestigious Mac's Midget Hockey Tournament. The Mac's tournament brought together sixteen of the top midget teams from Canada and the United States for a week of intense hockey. Scouts from all levels of pro hockey were in attendance at this tournament. Mr. Bienert suggested to some of us that this would be a fantastic opportunity to watch a lot of quality, competitive hockey and invited us to travel to Calgary with him for some of the games.

Mr. Bienert was a complete sideshow all by himself at a hockey game. From assisting the referees with their calls, to giving advice to both coaches and players, he was never at a loss for words. In particular, he would enjoy it if there were fans in attendance that were cheering for the opposite side. If they were in close proximity of where he was sitting, so much the better. He not only could find their buttons, he could push them, and he did.

For the Mac's tournament, we bought tickets in the home end, about 8 rows up from the ice. Mr. Bienert, sons Keith and Ken, Dan and Phil Callaway and myself arrived bright and early in the morning for the first game at 8:00. We witnessed outstanding hockey all day. Of particular memory was a lady who had become somewhat of a legend around the Stampede Corral. She had a gigantic purse which she would use as a battering ram against the glass pane directly behind the goaltender. During one of the last games of the afternoon there was some particularly lively banter in the area where we were seated. Fairly good-natured heckling and ribbing went back and forth between various parties with Mr. Bienert being in the front and centre of much of the goings on.

Someone in our party had brought a large bag of nuts to share at the game. These were passed around and shelled as the day went on. I'm not sure exactly what was said, but at some juncture Mr. Bienert thought he should throw a whole peanut over his shoulder in the general direction of the last comment. So, up and over the peanut went and Keith, looking back, noticed that it had actually made contact with a giant of a man. This guy appeared to be related to Paul Bunyan. He didn't look like someone you would want to meet in a dark alley. Leaning over he hissed at his Dad, "You hit that guy!" "Really?", was Mr. Bienert's reply and he sort of chuckled. I don't think he realized the gravity of the current situation. We went back to watching the game and cheering for our team. Mr. Bienert decided that the other peanut was probably lonely for company and launched another one in the same general direction as the first one. Not two seconds later, a booming voice hollered, "Hey you down there, cut it out!"

"Dad, you've hit him again!" intoned Keith. Amused, we were all killing ourselves laughing and egging him on. "Impossible!", exclaimed Mr. Bienert. "What are the chances of that ever happening?" he said, as he reached into the bag of nuts and chucked another in the same direction. About five rows up from where we were sitting, the same voice thundered. "You hammerhead! . . . If you do that one more time, I'm going to come down there and shove your head through the glass!" There was a noticeable hush in our end of the rink. All eyes were now looking in our direction. This was more fun than Mr. Bienert had signed up for.

They say the third time is a charm, but at that moment sitting there in that arena, no one was feeling any charm. Evidently the peanut had managed to find it's target for the third time. We had a little group huddle and talked about what we should do next. It was decided that it would probably be best if Mr. Bienert didn't chuck any more peanuts that day. He suggested that before the game actually ended we use the age old, proven "divide and flee" strategy, in case our adversary decided to take his complaint to another level. At the end of the game we scattered like sheep, all going down different rows and aisles as we made our way to the lobby. For the next game, we found new places to sit.

For years after, as I would pass Mr. Bienert in the hall or on the street, he would cup his hands in my direction and call out "Hey Rendall . . . you Hammerhead!" and a huge grin would spread across his face.

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© 2010 Stephen J. Rendall - All rights reserved.

TUNNEL OF LOVE

A Canadian winter can be a cruel mistress. Punishing temperatures of minus forty, several feet of snow and drifts to the tops of fences are not unusual. Some claim to actually enjoy the cold weather, other snowbirds leave and go south to Arizona or Florida, some of us had no choice. The winter of '74 was particularly frosty and we had pretty much settled in to our routine of school, hockey and sledding. For the high school kids there were not a lot of places to go for any type of "warm fellowship" where there were not deans, counsellors or staff looking over their shoulders at all times. There was however an underground hiding spot that was warm and very accessible to those with the creativity to recognize its potential.

In 1974 Prairie Bible Institute heated all of its homes, shops, classrooms and administrative buildings by steam. Cast iron radiators would rattle, bang, spit and hiss letting you know that all was well, the heat was flowing and you would be warm during the freezing winter weather. In those days the boiler plant, as it was called, was manned twenty four seven and was fed with mountains and mountains of coal. Out from this central boiler plant spread a system of steam tunnels that made their way to every corner of the campus. Like an octupus's tentacles there were literally miles of these tunnels. Inside the tunnels ran large insulated steam pipes, telephone lines and other mechanical infrastructure as needed by the large campus. In most places if a person would stoop over they could walk inside the tunnel. The insulation was not completely efficient allowing some heat to escape, effectively heating these tunnels.

The tunnels were primarily underneath the sidewalks giving the added benefit of melting the snow. This made less work for the maintenance crew in the winter months. It turned out to be quite a clever idea. In a few areas there were larger "rooms" as the tunnels veered off and headed in other directions. You could start at the boiler plant and go all the way up the hill and come out at several junctures along the way. You could work your way south and magically appear inside the girls dorm. Access to the steam tunnels took on various forms, but the most common were metal man hole covers that were placed in the sidewalk. Most of these were about 24 inches around, but there were some that were approximately 4 feet by 2 feet in size. When you opened one of these covers you were likely to be met with a group of salamanders laying in a pool of muddy water. These prehistoric looking creatures would scurry away as the light would pour into the tunnel. The tunnels were also home to silverfish, spiders and mice, making most of the girls somewhat reluctant to explore with us in this creepy underworld.

As it turns out - there were a few brave ones!

At 9:00 sharp the bell rang signaling another school day beginning at Prairie Elementary School. As we took our seats that morning the classroom was a buzz of talk of a fire the night before. The fire was said to have occurred right behind the school and that there was the evidence right outside to prove it! When the recess bell rang at 10:30, a group of us rushed to get our coats, boots, toques and mittens on and go outside and inspect the scene for ourselves. Sure enough, just to the west of the the two schools, right outside the large man hole cover leading into the steam tunnels, lay a massive heap of charred carnage with huge icicles encrusting the entire mess. What in the world?

This was a most curious sight. Upon closer inspection we could make out several mattresses, winter coats, some blue jeans, parts of a T shirt or two, and a tennis shoe. Along with the clothing items there appeared to be some broken glass and pieces of metal, mixed in with the icy charred remains. Perhaps most shocking to us were the blackened remains of a bra, some briefs and a number of beer bottles. Just the mention of the word bra was enough to send us grade eight boys off chortling and whispering among ourselves. Mix in beer bottles and our imaginations went wild.

PBI owned a small rustic resort on Pine Lake which was about 45 minutes north west of the campus. On about 50 acres of water front were 9 simple cabins where staff and students could go for a weekend of fishing in the spring or a couple weeks of summer holiday. ( Pine Lake will be the subject of another blog. ) Every fall, a crew of men would go up to the lake and bring home all the mattresses, coal oil lamps and other valuables from the cabins. These were put in storage until the spring when they would be needed again. Unkown to the powers that be, some of these items would find a use before the spring.

Several enterprising high school students had discovered this stash of supplies and having some knowledge of the steam tunnel system, put their plan into motion. Breaking into the storage garage late one night, they helped themselves to several of the mattresses and coal oil lamps. Carrying them several hundred yards to this particular entrance to the steam tunnels, they proceeded to set up a homey little love shack.

Now it is not my place to judge what occurred that night, as I was not present to witness this gathering. But I think it would safe to say that there was most likely some "laying on of hands" taking place at a minimum. At some juncture in the activities, someone knocked over one of the coal oil lamps and the whole shootin' shebang went up in flames. With no time to gather their personal effects, the kids were fortunate to have escaped with their lives and the hair on their heads. The fire department was called, the fire doused and all of the blackened remains were hauled up out of the tunnel and placed outside the entrance on the ground. This was the sight that greeted us the next morning when we arrived at school.

It wasn't long until a crew was dispatched and all of the "evidence" removed. Our young minds were left thinking - "What went on in that tunnel that night?". . . and . . . "It must have been a very cold jog for those kids heading back to their various places of abode that frosty winter's eve!"

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© 2010 Stephen J. Rendall - All rights reserved.

ONCE A KNIGHT

Note: There will be a few stories about an English teacher by the name of Mr. Knight. He was a most colorful character and will be featured in coming days. I do want to share a short story that I had forgotten about. The class in question was a couple of years ahead of us, so I was not present to be a witness. This was sent to me by a student that was in the class when the following occurred:

ONCE A KNIGHT

The Knight family moved from Waupaca, WI to Prairie in the summer of 1974. At that time, there were four children - Tim, Dan, Mark, and Jane. Ben was added in 1977 and Ruth in 1981.

Mr. Kenneth Knight taught English and was a bit of a legend when it came to providing fodder for crazy stories. As it happens a group of girls came across a plaque which they thought would make a fitting presentation for their favorite English teacher. This group of rather naive (maybe not?) girls made arrangements with him to make a formal presentation in front of the entire class.

The plaque read:

“ONCE A KING ALWAYS A KING, BUT ONCE A KNIGHT IS ENOUGH!"

 

The guy that sent me this anecdote told me that he about fell out of his desk laughing, Mr. Knight had a good laugh while turning beet red. What else could he do?

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© 2010 Stephen J. Rendall - All rights reserved.

(Thanks to Tim Knight for supplying the photo of the original plaque!)

THE FÜHRER COMES TO CLASS

Grade Ten social studies was hardly my idea of a good time and Mr. Marvin Janzen made it worse. Because of this man's incredible memory, he expected superhuman performances out of all his students.

We talk these days about gigabytes of memory, CPU speeds and retrieval times that are lightning fast. Today's new computers have nothing on Mr Janzen. In the first couple weeks of school he would memorize every student's name, day and year of birth. It was a common occurrence, as he encountered you in the hallway or on the campus, to point his finger at you and rattle off your birth date. No other greeting, conversation or small talk, just this statistic, and he was hardly ever wrong. This was not just the pupils in his own classes, but every student in the entire school from grades nine to twelve. At the time the school numbered well over three hundred students.

You can imagine what was in store for us as his Grade Ten Social Studies students. He took great delight in having us memorize pages and pages of events and their associated dates. Sometimes the quizzes would just have dates listed and you were to fill in the event and other times the reverse was true. He would give us the event and we were to supply the date. I went as far as rigging up an 8 track cartridge player, speaking all of the information into a microphone and letting the machine loop over and over at night while I slept. I hoped there was something to the whole subconscious mind theory, I would absorb said material and "Voila!", ace every one of Mr. Janzen's tests. Not so easy! I discovered that it took work for me to memorize anything and the method that worked best for me was to write out the material in long hand over and over. That seemed to get it ingrained into my memory. This actually took a lot of work and time but it had the benefit of my passing the class. Other students would recite information out loud over and over. Different approaches for different people.

As we navigated through the material that year we came to the section on World War II. Somehow we discovered that Mr Janzen spoke fluent German and not only that but he had memorized one of the Führer's speeches word for word! Not just some lines, but the entire rant. WOW! We were shocked, mesmerized and most importantly, eager for him to share this newly discovered skill with the class. Mr. Janzen was normally a very austere type of individual and had a very low tolerance level for any shenanigans. Every one has their buttons and he had his. I think he was quite thrilled that we recognized this talent and became eager to showcase his skills. I guess that he felt, and we argued, that this demonstration was both educational and historical in nature. We thought it would be just fine if he were to give us a sampling of his hidden talent. With our encouragement he gave in and delivered a couple of lines from the speech. The class cheered and applauded, a slight grin came over Mr. Janzen's face and we knew we had won. Of course we didn't have a clue if he was really reciting from the Führer or Shakespeare, but matter not, this was exciting business!

Having had a taste of a little of the speech and figuring more was better, we would constantly implore him to "perform" again. He would resist and we would persist. Maybe he missed the accolades, I'm not really sure why, but finally he gave in. Someone suggested (may have been Phil Callaway?) that if Mr. Janzen were to take a small black comb and grip it so just enough showed to pass for a small mustache, it would give the whole proceedings a more realistic feel. A comb was produced and Mr. Janzen agreed. We stopped short of arm bands and insignias.

Before we knew what was happening, and before anyone could say luftwaffe, with one bound Mr. Janzen leapt right up onto a table in front of the classroom. Holding the comb in one hand as his faux stache and saluting straight out with the other, he let loose with the most electrifying speech we had ever heard. Standing there in his black suit, black military boots, skinny tie and mustache, every eye was glued to him as he yelled out this historic speech in fluent German. We were both horrified and intrigued all in one emotion. This was certainly better than studying, but was it even right? Did this guy have a secret past that none of us knew about? How did he come to know this material? We had lots of questions, and very few answers. In a small community where conspiracy theories ran rampant, anything could be possible. On he went delivering with the passion of a pentecostal preacher.

We sat there stunned . . .

Our Social Studies classroom was situated on the third floor of the high school building. It had a small window on each door at both the front and back of the classroom. On that particular day, at that particular time, the principal of the high school just happened to be walking down the hall. Hearing the yelling, Ken Penner stopped and walked over to the front door of our classroom and peered in the window. We all saw him standing there, but by now Mr. Janzen was so geared up that the building itself could have been on fire and I don't think he would have noticed. Finally the speech was over and there came a knock at the front door.

Mr Janzen continued to teach in the school but the Führer never came back for a visit.

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© 2010 Stephen J. Rendall - All rights reserved.

STANDING IN THE NEED OF PRAYER

In High school we had an accounting and typing teacher by the name of Don Keller or PTL Keller as we called him. He and his family had moved to Canada and immediately brought a new "flavor" to our community. He earned the name PTL Keller by his incessant use of the phrase "Praise The Lord" after any and every remotely encouraging statement by each preacher or teacher that came along and was given the opportunity to speak on a public platform. He would holler this out in a loud voice often leaving one wondering if he actually had listened to what had just been said, or simply waited for pauses, so that he could interject his line into the equation for all to hear. A plea for recognition perhaps?, maybe an insecurity?, a sincere heart? . . . I was never quite sure, but it was downright annoying and left the listener seriously doubting the sincerity from which this line was delivered.

PTL Keller drove a massive boat of a car to which he had fastened very large signs to all four doors using sheet metal screws. These signs proclaimed fire and brimstone for the unbelievers in our little town on the prairies. A veritable rolling billboard for Jesus. Just the sight of him approaching in his boat was enough to send one scurrying for the nearest hiding spot. Another thing that PTL Keller had taken on himself was the notion that he could not only help with the enforcement of the rather legalistic rules, but he could also assist one's conscience by taking you aside at the most inconvenient times, speaking to you about the error of your ways and then having a word of prayer with you before letting you off the hook.

If there is one thing that I couldn't stand as a grade 10 kid and certainly have a very low tolerance for today as a 49 year old is manipulation by those in authority. Makes me doubly mad if that manipulation has a spiritual component attached. Such was the case with teacher PTL Keller.

There was a group of us guys that hung out at the home of a girl who was in school with us by the name of Arlene McComish. Arlene, her older sister, two older brothers and their parents were the most welcoming, hospitable human beings you will ever meet. No matter what color, shape or size, all were welcome in the McComish home. There was a TV and pool table in the basement and there were always lots of people there visiting upstairs with her parents or shooting a round of pool with her brothers. Not only was this a welcoming home, but none of us guys had a pool table at our homes and this was a chance for us to brush up on our "worldly" skills.

In those days pool was frowned on at PBI as being a worldly game and so no staff home that I knew of had a pool table. Because Arlene lived off campus and her folks were not on staff, these standards did not apply to them. As a double bonus, they also had a couple of televisions which were also on the list of "have nots" for those of us associated with the college. This was a great chance to watch some hockey or see a movie and maybe even just get a glimpse of the news.

One night a bunch of us were over at the McComish home and our cars were all parked in the driveway and up and down the street. There was no drugs, drinking or smoking going on, no sex in the back rooms or in the attic - just a bunch of young people having a good time visiting, playing pool and watching TV. I recall Arlenes parents and grandmother being there that evening. Some girls from the high school dorm had come over to join the party and at a reasonable hour every one made their way back to their places of abode.

We had a 2 minute break between classes in high school and as the bell rang, I was heading down the hall to my Biology 10 class with Mr. Unger. Right outside the library (or as we called it - "Harry's Lounge") I was abruptly accosted by PTL Keller. Evidently he'd had the "boat mobile" out on a mission the previous night and just "happened' across all of our vehicles at the McComish house. He looked me straight in the eye and said, "Steve, while you were over there playing pool, thousands of people were dying and going to hell" - My goodness! I had never thought of that angle. I knew that PTL Keller was an avid golfer and that as soon as the weather would allow it you could find him out on the local course chasing that little white ball around. Quick as a wink, I said - "Mr. Keller, I understand that you like to golf?" - "love to golf" was his reply.

Now my father would call this cheeky, others would say it was disrespectful, and I am not here to make excuses for myself, but I said "Mr. Keller, while you are out on that golf course, thousands of people are going to hell". PTL Keller was so shocked, he didn't know quite what to say, so he said, "Let's have a word of prayer." I then said, "That would be fine, you lead us." He bowed his head, closed his eyes and right there in the middle of the hall, kids streaming past on both sides, he began to pray with a very loud voice. I sized up the situation and thought I probably should be getting to class, so off I went leaving PTL Keller standing alone in the hall. There he stood head bowed, eyes closed, praying away as if his life depended on it. As I was taking my seat in biology, the doors closed and the class began. There was a knock at the door. You guessed it! Mr. Unger said, "Steve, Mr. Keller is here and would like to have a word" . . . but that is a story for another day.

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© 2010 Stephen J. Rendall - All rights reserved.

MEMORY LIKE AN ELEPHANT

Not meaning to pick on Marvin Janzen, but I do have a few stories about him. Early in our marriage (1984) or so, Cathy and I went out to Vancouver to visit our friends Ron and Karen Nickel. It was around Christmas time and we were visiting a mall in Abbotsford. We came across a choral group singing Christmas Carols. Lo and behold there was Marvin Janzen. Marvin had been one of our teachers in high school. At the beginning of each school year, he would memorize the year and date of birth of every student in the school. This was when the school numbered close to three hundred! There he was, standing in the choir singing his heart out. We stood and waited until they were done singing. By this point, he had spotted us and came down out of the choir to where we were standing. Pointing his finger at Cathy he said "April 28th, 1961" and then pointing at me, said, "March 26th, 1961" turning around, he walked away! YIKES - that was at least 5 years after we had been in school at PHS. The man had an unbelievable memory! www.prairieboy.com © 2010 Stephen J. Rendall - All rights reserved.