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.

THINGS THAT GO PUTT IN THE NIGHT

The railroad played an important part in the life of most prairie towns. Our little town was no exception. Since the 1920's, thousands of students had arrived by train to attend the school. A lot of freight was delivered to the train station in those days. Car load after car load of grain was shipped from the small community. For years, Three Hills held the prestigious moniker, "The Wheat Capital of Alberta" - I was never really sure what that meant.

My mom sold Avon in the 1960's. I have fond recollections of accompanying her as she would navigate our little red and white 1963 Ford Falcon down to the loading dock to pick up her shipments. There, Station Master Perks would locate the boxes and help load them into the car. This not only provided some extra income for the family but had the added benefit of keeping her smelling nice and us boys too, some of the time!

The small rail yard at Three Hills had several spurs where extra cars were stored. They might be standing there to be loaded with grain or waiting for some form of maintenance to be undertaken. Off one of these spurs was a small shack where the railway workers kept what we called putt-putts. Small car-like machines, they were fitted with steel wheels for easy navigation on the tracks. These railroad go-karts had a unique handle type device that was pulled up and down powering the putt putt along the railway. These small cars were used for line maintenance and general track inspection for miles in either direction from our town.

Peter Martynovych was not a bad guy. He had what you might call "creative skills". One of these skills involved the procurement of a very large stuffed living room style chair from the Tilly Shop, PBI's thrift store. Pete hauled the old chair up to his dorm room where he proceeded to cut through one of the arms so that it still hinged on one side. He then fitted an 8 track stereo and some other controls down into this arm. There was enough room inside the chair for the storage of a number of 8 track tape cartridges in addition to the equipment. With one quick flip of the arm, he could turn off his stereo. This served as a wonderful set-up when it came to "hiding" music and stereos from the floor bosses and deans. By the time the inspector entered the room there was not a stereo to be found.

Let me explain the need for hiding music. At that time rock music, or really any music with bass and drums, was seriously frowned upon and would be confiscated if discovered. Creative ideas would abound as efforts were made to disguise this type of music from the authorities. One of the more clever ways was to go over to The Prairie Book Room where they sold text books, Bibles and other Christian books and purchase 8 track tapes of the schools own music. These tapes may have been choral in nature or perhaps a male quartet accompanied by piano. The 8 tracks were then taped over with some more progressive type music and proudly displayed on dorm room shelves. Unless the music police actually took each cartridge out of its case, popped it in a machine and gave it a listen, they were left thinking that maybe you had turned over a new leaf.

Pete had a full-sized string fiddle which he played in a small bluegrass / country band made up of fellow students. He had played the bass balalaika in his family band. The balalaika is an eight-stringed triangular shaped instrument of Russian origin. Pete would play that bass fiddle with as much gusto as he could muster, to the annoyance of some of his fellow students. With paper thin walls and wooden floors, the whole dorm would resonate when he would crank up the bass.

One night after lights out, Pete and another fellow explorer snuck out of the dorm. Under cover of darkness they made their way to the railroad station. Quiet as mice, so as not to disturb the station master who was living in the station house with his family, the boys carefully placed a putt-putt on the rail line heading north. It didn't take long until they had figured out the basic operation of the unit and off into the unknown they went. It was a beautiful night and the land was so quiet as the little putt-putt skimmed along the track. The little crew was somewhere up past Trochu on their way to Elnora when totally out of the black came the loud sound of a train whistle. This was quickly followed by the sight of a bright light in the distance, heading straight their way.

This was an unexpected turn of events! Neither one had thought to check the train schedule and see what might be in store for them that night on their adventure. Sure enough, the train kept coming and the whistle sounded again. Panicked, the boys had no clue what to do other than to get off the putt-putt. They realized that if they left it on the track the train would smash into it causing catastrophic damage? So with one giant heave, they pushed the putt-putt off the tracks and onto the side of the bank. As the putt-putt rolled, it gained a little momentum and just kept going. With a splash it landed in a pond at the side of a field and began to sink.

It was a long walk back to Three Hills that night. Probably close to twenty miles or so. The lads arrived just as the sun was coming up in the east. Exhausted, they dragged themselves to chapel and then to morning classes. When 11:30 rolled around, time for Bible class to start, Pete was dead to the world. He took his seat and laid his head down on his desk.

Ken Penner, High School principal at the time, taught Bible 30. He arrived at class to see Pete fast asleep in a desk at the back of the class. "Martynovych", he thundered, "Wake up! If you didn't stay up all night puttzing around, you wouldn't be so tired" Pete went into complete panic mode. How did Penner know what they had done? What would happen next? All sorts of questions raced trough his mind. Now wide awake he tried to figure out what he should do.

Daily announcements, delivered from the office, broadcast to the entire school just before Bible class, began over the PA system. As it happened that day, there was a call for Peter Martynovych to come to the High School office after school. Now he was really concerned. He just knew the gig was up.

That morning a farmer near Elnora called the Canadian National Railway office to report that he had found a putt putt in his pond. Later that day, the school received a call from the local CNR office wondering if they had any information about the wandering putt-putt. The school said they would keep their eyes and ears open.

Four o'clock came much too soon for Pete Martynovych. During the course of the day he had reached the decision that he would be proactive and not reactive. He got into the line at the office and waited his turn. Approaching the window, he asked to speak to the principal. Confessions were made, the accomplice rounded up and punishments meted out.

The crazy thing was, unknown to Pete, Ken Penner didn't know who the perpetrators of the putt-putt crime were let alone that the suspects were sitting in his Bible class that morning. He had simply used the term "puttzing" as a euphemism for goofing off. Pete had been called to the office that day on a totally unrelated matter . . . Ken's unintentional bluff had done the trick!

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© 2010 Stephen J. Rendall - All rights reserved.

NOW YOU SEE ME, NOW YOU DON'T

Wayne Roper was a big tough fellow who came to our little prairie school from Sayward, British Columbia. Sayward, a small town on Vancouver Island, had it's rough element in the many logging camps and sawmills that surrounded the town. Wayne, the son of a preacher, had a mischievous sneer. No one picked a fight with Wayne Roper! Of the many stories about him, one particular tale sticks in my memory.

The high school boys were housed in a rickety four story wooden dorm. This building was very much like an old style military barracks. Part way through the semester Wayne had caused his fair share of trouble. He presented many challenges for both his floor bosses and the dean of boys, Dan Krestinski. Dan himself, was a fairly savvy individual, and this was not his first rodeo when it came to dealing with troublesome youth. Wayne Roper, however, taxed Dan's brain to the max as he tried to find a solution to curtail his wayward behavior. I guess you could have called him "Wayward from Sayward".

Every room in the dorm had a lock on the door. Dan hatched a plan to reverse the lock and actually lock the person into the room. Such was the fate of Wayne Roper. With one elevated eyebrow, Dan explained to him that after study hours and a potty break in the evening, just before lights out, he would be locked into his room on the fourth floor. He would be let out around six thirty in the morning; time for him to shower, eat his breakfast and be in chapel by eight o'clock. This plan seemed to work and for several days Wayne would come and go from his room and maybe, just maybe things were looking up. But the mind of Wayne Roper was never idle.

Late one night after he had been locked in his room for the night, the plan went into motion. Wayne tied several of his sheets together. He opened his window and the fun began. With some help from his accomplice on the third floor, he proceeded to dismantle every piece of furniture in his room. The metal bunk beds were taken apart, tied to the sheet rope and carefully lowered into the room below, one piece at a time. The desk was next, followed by the simple wardrobe, a chair and all of his personal effects. He then detached the fluorescent light that hung from a couple of chains over the desk, unplugged it and down it went. Finally, when the room was as bare as a baby's bottom, over the window sill went Wayne. Stepping on the ledge below he was able to detach the tied sheets and shut the window.

Morning dawned and along came Dan to let his reforming prisoner out of his "cell". Imagine the shock on his face when he opened the door. The room . . . was empty.

Note: Some names have been changed to protect the guilty!

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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.

IT'S ALL IN THE NUMBERS

In the summer of 1975 I was 14 years old. Summers for Prairie Bible Institute were particularly challenging times as most of the students were gone and the cash flow diminished. Staff still had to be paid and summer maintenance programs undertaken. This summer was no different. My father was a Vice President at the Institute as well as teacher, preacher and editor of the schools flagship publication; the Prairie Overcomer. Dad usually would get home from work fairly late and so it was around 6:30 this day when he showed up for supper with a rather happy look on his tired face.

Normally Dad would arrive just in time to tune in "As It Happens" on the CBC or perhaps catch the daily broadcast of the "Haven of Rest." His little Sony transistor radio lived on the kitchen table and was our families source of news and entertainment programming around the super table. Tonight though, before he bowed his head to say grace, he informed us of a special provision that the school had received that very day.

An envelope had arrived that afternoon in the regular post addressed to Dad from a man in Florida. This fellow, though never having attended the school, had been following it's work through the Prairie Overcomer for many years. Dad related that the accompanying letter had instructed the administration to use the enclosed check as they saw fit and that more funds would be arriving in coming days. We all agreed with Dad that this was great news as we knew how tough the summer months could be for the school.

Never one to be overly shy, I asked Dad just how much money this man had sent as it seemed to have made a considerable impression on him. Dad informed us that the check was for ten thousand dollars! (10,000.00) This was astonishing and I asked Dad if I could see the check. Dad went off to his briefcase and promptly produced the paper in question.

As my teachers, classmates, and business associates will tell you, math was never my strong suit. Evidently it wasn't my Father's either. As Dad handed me the check and I began to examine it, I did a double take. There were not four zeroes before the period, there were six. (1,000,000.00) That's right, I held in my hand a check for one million dollars! I looked at it again - yup, that is was exactly what it said. I exclaimed to Dad - "Take a look at this, it's for one million dollars!" Dad said, "It can't be," and as I handed it back to him his eyes grew wide as the realization of the size of this "provision" sank in. The next time you get a check . . . check the numbers!

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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.