Chapter 18. Nicknames

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Just about everyone who stayed at St. John’s for more than a year ended up with a nickname. I think this was partly in response to the school practice of using only last names when addressing students. You tended not to even know a boy’s first name. As a result, nicknames were given to make conversations between students more personal.

Only in a few cases do I remember the names being nasty or cruel. Those nicknames emphasized characteris­tics that were considered unhygienic or effeminate – pus­shead and Missy being two examples. Other nicknames focused on physical features or perceived deficiencies of intelligence.

In my class, Forfar was dubbed Fats or Fatman almost the day he arrived. When Terry Baptiste, wasn’t being referred to as Bap, he was usually being called Thumper, thanks to his big feet. Only five foot six when he arrived in Grade 8 he already wore size 12 shoes. His moccasins had to be custom-made for snowshoeing.

Byfield unwillingly wore the moniker Chipmunk or Bugsy until his upper teeth became a lit­tle less pronounced. And Cooper had to be put up with being called either Indian for his swarthy looks and trace of na­tive blood or Sam as in Samson for his usually calm demeanor but considerable upper body strength.

Several of the guys in my class had nicknames derived simp­ly from either their first or last names mine included. Though you’d assume Dick was just short for Richard I’m fairly positive it had as much to do with my last name as my first.

It started out as Decan and evolved into Deke and then Dick. Peter Jack­son had his dad’s profession to thank for the tag Bishop Jack or in less formal circumstances just Jack. Timbers for Barney Timmers undoubtedly came about because a new master once mispronounced his last name.

I suspect Stephens may be as much responsible for his title Cassius Craig as a bluff but I’m sure it was always said in jest. Boxer Cassius Clay (aka Mohammad Ali) Stephens definitely never was. Only in connection with his ability to flap his tongue was the nickname ever ap­propriate.

Two of my classmates had nicknames that related to real or perceived obsessions. The fall term would only be a couple of weeks old when anonymous messages would appear on the blackboard exhorting all and sundry to Think Snow. This fortunate­ly was not the work of an unbalanced mind determined to see an early start to the snowshoe season.

It was merely Jon “Ski” Guy’s way of living a fantasy life that denied him at St. John’s. Posters on his locker door and inspirational messages were all Guy had to sustain his devotion to the sport through three years of exile at Selkirk.

The nickname that came to apply to Michael Davies stemmed from an apparent fascination with fire that was not widely known until after a rather troublesome incident one spring evening during his second year at the school.

Scattered through the bush behind the barn lay more than a dozen chicken shelters. For more than a year they had sat empty. They were all that remained of the short-lived scheme to raise roasting birds outdoors during the summer.

The school was notorious for dreaming up projects that never made it beyond the trial phase, usually because expertise, training, and follow-through were not considered necessary ingredients for success. It was an approach that often took advantage of the generosity of supporters and reinforced the worst aspects of the amateur ideal.

In my first year, we spent several afternoons picking roots and stones from a field at the back of the property that had been broken and tilled by a neighbouring farmer. One year later it was allowed to go back to its natural state.

That year we also spent more than a month cutting and hauling fence posts, many on a neighbouring farm, for a fence line that wasn’t completed. The hastily built Palais des Vaches (cow palace) was used for one winter before being allowed to deteriorate.

The attitude spilled over into student government-inspired projects. An enormous wooden toboggan slide by the river was about 95 percent completed before being abandoned, never used. Plywood for a hockey rink had been donated by a construction company but only once do I remember the boards being set up. And there was never enough water pressure to make ice.

So too did the chicken shelters experience a similar fate. The planners of the 1964 summer chicken project had neglected to provide adequate shelter for the 6,000 birds penned outside the barn. When a freak August blizzard wiped out 400 one night, the school had a crisis on its hands.

The University of Manitoba’s experimental farm, fortunately, came to the rescue by providing 15 wooden shelters for next to nothing. The shel­ters saved the rest of the flock from the storm’s aftermath, though not from the eviscerating plant a couple of weeks later. The shelters were never used again, except by a contingent of dedicated smokers in the student body.

A couple years later on a warm May evening, more than half a dozen members of the smokers’ fraternity showed up at the shelters at the same time. Davies was among them. Because of the attention, such a large group might at­tract crouched behind the shelters some members decided it would be safer to crawl inside.

Once a couple of them had succeeded in crawling through the narrow hatch it quickly became a challenge to see how many the shelter would hold. Somehow everyone made it in. They then turned their atten­tions to enjoying a peaceful after-dinner smoke. Unfortunately, that was not to be.

Rocks soon began to rain down on the roof. The rocks were also striking the walls and a few even bounced through the doorway. Ap­peals for a ceasefire of course only encouraged the assailants to intensify the barrage. Some of the rocks were now striking bodies positioned well inside the coop.

Amid curses of pain and anger, one by one the smokers scrambled out thereby making themselves an easy target until they were able to to launch a retaliatory strike. As suspected the assailants were a handful of juniors.

In the midst of the melee that fol­lowed, someone yelled “fire!” Despite suspicions, it was not a ruse. A quick glance at the coop that had just been vacated confirmed they now had an emergency on their hands – one that could result in having to answer some unpleasant questions. The juniors were only too happy to call a truce and watch the enemy extricate itself from the pickle it found itself now in.

A bucket brigade was hastily formed carrying water over from the barn. By now the incident had attracted attention and it was only a matter of time before one of the masters would find out.

By the time one did arrive the fire, was under control. To everyone’s surprise, the wholesale round-up and interroga­tion they feared did not materialize. Instead, Mr. Byfield simply accepted everyone’s word that they didn’t know what started it. Davies had more reason than most to be concerned. He was carrying a box of wooden matches he had taken from the canoe trip storage room. The minute he got back to the school he put them in his locker.

To his horror when he returned less than five minutes later he discovered smoke seeping out the bottom of the door. In a flash, he opened the door, grabbed the smoldering box of matches, raced out the back door, and then tossed them onto a pile of dirt. He arrived back at his locker with a metal wastepaper basket just as the study bell rang.

The hall quickly filled with students. At the far end, Mr. Byfield stepped out of the staff house and started walking his way. There was nothing Davies could do but continue.

“Have we got another fire?” Mr. Byfield bellowed after first smelling the smoke, then catching sight of Davies’s frantic move­ments amid a crowd of onlookers. He was beside himself with anger. More than that he looked frightened.

“What in heaven’s name is going on? Is somebody trying to destroy the school?” he said to no one in particular.

“By George, we’re going to get to the bottom of this. Davies, I want to see you in the office as soon as that’s put out.”

Mr. Byfield had calmed down considerably by the time Davies reached the office. He beckoned Davies to enter then closed the door.

“Is there something bothering you?” he asked with concern.

“No, Sir.”

“You’re not upset with anyone?”

“No, Sir.”

“Well, it’s more than a coincidence that you were involved in both the fires this evening,” he con­tinued.

“Were you on duty at the barn?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“And what were you doing out at the chicken coops?”

“We had finished the chores and were just out there talking. Then some juniors started pitching rocks at us from the bush. We chased after them and the next thing we knew a fire had started in one of the chicken coops,” he explained uneasily.

“Do you know how it started,” he asked.

“No, Sir.”

“No idea?”

“No, Sir.”

The last thing Davies was going to do was fess up to smoking and have to start naming names.

“What about the fire in your locker? How did that start?” he inquired.

“I had some matches for lighting brush piles. I must have tossed them too hard into my locker. I came back a few minutes later and they’d caught fire. It was acciden­tal,” Davies explained.

“For Pete’s sake, Davies,” Mr. Byfield said abruptly. “Are you trying to tell me you didn’t realize that by throwing a box of matches you might start a fire?”

“No, Sir, I was in a hurry because I knew the bell was going to go soon and I wanted to change,” he offered. “I real­ize it was pretty dumb.”

“Well, I hope for everyone’s sake you’ve learned your lesson,” Mr. Byfield said. “Fire is one thing we can’t afford to be casual about in these old buildings. This can’t happen again.”

“Will you ask the master on duty to send Carson to the office?” he added as he opened the door.

Davies could hardly believe his luck. He was walking out without receiving a single swat. Later he heard from Carson that Mr. Byfield had asked him to keep an eye out for suspicious fires around the property. He feared the chicken coop had been deliberately set on fire and that there might be a pyromaniac on the loose.

Davies may have got off easy but in the minds of many the fire in his locker more than justified dubbing him Arson. Whenever the fire alarm went off many a joke was made as to Davies’s whereabouts.

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