Chapter 6: Sawyerville High Scool

 The Spirit of Sawyerville

The three-floor red brick building on Sawyerville's main street, built in the mid-1900s, stands as a testament to a time when the town thrived on lumber, logging, and farming. Despite its modest exterior, this building played a pivotal role in shaping the lives of many generations. While its primary purpose was as a school, it evolved into an unofficial community center. The gymnasium became a hub of activity, hosting everything from Christmas pageants and student plays to graduation dances, wedding receptions, and senior card parties. This building wasn't just bricks and mortar; it was the heart of a community, alive with the spirit of Sawyerville.

I've always believed that objects and places develop a bit of a spirit after playing such a significant role in our lives. Many of us have named our motorcycles, boats, tractors and other possessions, even cursing them by name when they fail us. Maybe it’s just me, but I truly think that things can possess a spirit. Sawyerville High School is no exception and endures not only as a building but also in spirit. How many of you can't help but smile when reminiscing about your high school days? The spirit lives on, even if that spirit sometimes is only a reflection of the many stories that we can tell.

At this stage of my life, it's more important than ever for me to take a moment to reflect on my journey and how I arrived where I am today. The five years I spent at Sawyerville High profoundly shaped my approach to life. It wasn’t just about learning what was needed to pass the grade; it was also about the lessons learned outside the classroom. While the academic part of schooling played a significant role and surprisingly some of what I learned still sticks in my mind, the real education happened when the teachers weren't looking. I discovered it was perfectly okay to be yourself, not just a cookie cutter image of what others expected you to be. Those days also taught me that high school isn't just a building—it's a spirit that continues to influence who we become.

My family returned to the Eastern townships when my father left the Canadian Armed Forces. I was 12 during that first year of high school. Once I realized that I was accepted into the community, I settled into the rhythm of school life. In the many military town schools I attended, you had three identity options: be the bully, the bully's sidekick, or the one who didn't take any nonsense. Naturally, I fit snugly into the last category. Sawyerville was a different ball game. Kids there identified as town or country kids. Riding the big yellow bus every day automatically pegged me as a country kid—with a short fuse, no less. While I got along well with the town kids, I was always more comfortable as a country kid. That first year I gained a reputation for being good at sports, joining every team I could: basketball, hockey—you name it. My claim to fame was scoring a hat trick on home ice against Cookshire. Who knew I'd end up being an older version of a country kid with a talent for scoring goals, however, I'm still waiting on a call from the NHL to go to training camp.

Academic and extracurricular achievements were celebrated with pride in our community. Several graduates were recruited by Bell Canada, the basketball team clinched the regional championships one year, and the drama committee produced a hit play the next year. Yearbooks captured our journey with annual class pictures, lists of graduates, and highlights of sports and activities. But what they didn’t capture were the stories that made growing up in my generation truly unforgettable.

Sawyerville High School lore wouldn't be half as entertaining without the tales that parents were blissfully unaware of. Some stories might have skirted the edges of legality and acceptability today, but let's just say the statute of limitations is a wonderful thing. Spending time in 'recess or noon detention' was practically a hobby for me. I might have set records for the most time served, but, sadly, no awards were handed out for that. There was never any doubt about whether I deserved it—just wait until you hear some of the tales that follow.

How to drive a teacher crazy

Mrs. McEwan had a certain nervous energy about her. Adults might have called her 'high strung,' but we students thought her strings were wound tighter than a banjo on bluegrass night. She wasn’t exactly on the list of 'good' teachers—the kind who genuinely cared about your well-being. Instead, she seemed to be clocking in and harboring a bit of resentment while doing so. Her reputation for punishing the smallest infractions, often with detention or a trip to the principal's office, was well-known. And I was certainly one of her favorites for that 'preferred status.'

Mrs. McEwan wore multiple hats, teaching a couple of subjects and serving as the librarian. The library and the detention room were adjacent, but their doorways were at opposite ends of each room. She had a knack for assigning hefty detention work, like writing a sentence a hundred times, and then disappearing to tend to library duties.

One hot and sticky day in late spring, during final exams, I found myself in yet another lunch detention. Mrs. McEwan, for reasons I can’t recall, kept me in. The school's open secret was that I had a knack for getting under her skin. The large sliding windows were open, offering a wide ledge that overlooked the alleyway to the undertaker’s next door.

The moment she left the classroom, I climbed out of the window closest to the library, shuffled along the ledge, and snuck into the library window. I found a seat, opened a book, and signaled to the other students to keep quiet. Mrs. McEwan returned, settled at her desk, and scanned the room. When she saw me—or who she thought was me—she seemed to go into spasms. She dashed out of the library and headed back to the classroom. By the time she got there, I was back in my seat, diligently writing my assignment. She let out a panicked shriek and bolted back to the library. Once again, I was sitting there when she arrived. This time she uttered a muffled scream and vanished for the rest of the school year. Let's just say I had a very peaceful end to my final exams---and no more detentions.

Partners in crime

Over time I was able to build solid friendships with many of my school mates. School, common interests and sense of community was the glue that brought us together. Sometimes it was sports, community events like Cookshire Fair, hunting partridge, riding horses and other  times it might be breaking or bending the rules.  Despite now having some good friends, the chip on my shoulder and short fuse that I acquired during the military inspired schooling days lingered on during my years at SHS.

Tom Statton became one of my good friends. We still are for that matter, although sometimes it's years that separate our  visits. Our lifestyles may be much different but we continue to share many common interests. During our time in high school we didn't care much for rules. We were always in trouble for some reason or another. This lead to the principal, Andrew Patton making a rule that required a parent to write a note providing permission for students to go off school property during school hours or between the time that the Big Yellow Bus dropped you off and picked you up. Tom and I had a solution for that. We would write notes for each other with almost illegible signatures giving each other permission to leave at lunch. Using some of our lunch money or money we had earned from weekend jobs we frequently went to the restaurant down the street at lunch time and occasionally the hotel for a beer on Fridays.

Never hesitant to push the boundaries of school rules, during hot and sunny weather we would take a couple of chairs and climb out through the nurses office window onto the roof of the gym. The roof of the gym was good for adding to our tan and also provided an alternate escape route via the fire escape  ladder when we couldn't convince a teacher that our notes were legitimate.

Fast times at Sawyerville High

While the High School building moonlighted as the traditional community center, the Sawyerville Hotel stepped into its nonconventional role as the go-to hangout spot for the more “adventurous” high school students. Friday nights at the hotel were legendary. It didn’t matter if you were still in high school or had already escaped—some of us showed up to shake off the week's dust and leap headfirst into the weekend. The hotel was our headquarters for planning weekend escapades, playing pool and hanging out with rowdy friends. Would it be Nick Dean's Barn Dance, a drive-in movie at Norton, New Hampshire or Derby, Vermont, or perhaps a Hootenanny at North River or a local pond? It all began at 15 for me in grade 9, all part of a well rounded education.

I spent my summers and weekends at the lumber yard, where working with rough sawn lumber became a form of art for me. Stacking perfectly symmetric 16-foot piles became my speciality, only with splinters and the occasional runaway 6 x 6 beam. Eventually, I proved myself to the yard manager as a hard-working problem solver, even occasionally fixing the forklift. Eventually, I earned the tongue in cheek and oh-so-prestigious title of "Forklift Technical Specialist" which translated to driving the forklift on Saturday mornings. Friday nights were for hotel hangouts with friends, and despite getting home at unspeakable hours, I still managed to show up early for work. There was just one tiny issue: hangovers and diesel fumes don't go well together. But, armed with sheer willpower and an occasional purge of the previous nights excesses, I powered through. After a much-needed afternoon nap, I was set for another round of Saturday night shenanigans.

Many a Saturday night was spent at Nick Dean's barn dance during the school years. I considered it a legitimate part of my education fondly referred to as Saturday night field trips.  It was the hangout of choice if you still had enough money in your pocket after a classic Friday night. There were other dance halls in the area including the White House Pavilion but Nick Dean's was the place to be for my generation until it burned down in the early 70's.  All you needed was $2 for gas, $3 for a case of beer and enough left over to get you into the dance hall, a hot dog in the cafeteria downstairs and a 1:00 AM snack at the Oiseau Bleu restaurant in Sawyerville on the way home. Doesn't seem like much today but it was a fair investment when you only earned a dollar ten an hour on weekends.

Local musicians and country and western bands were the major draw. Rodney Bray and the Country Gentlemen were among the most popular. Other notable names included Sid Prescott, Terry Howell, Gerry Robitaille, Joanne Moreault (Gerry and Joanne), Ron Hazeltine, Harold Nutbrown, Wayne Nutbrown, Dave Gordon and Jim Robinson. There were more, but my memory has faded with time. These bands drew inspiration and playlists from classic country and western music legends like George Jones and Merle Haggard. The barn loft's unique shape and hardwood dance floor created a distinct sound that was hard to replicate. The image of Grant and Mayotta Taylor doing a country and western waltz every Saturday night will forever be a part of my memories. Nick Dean's remains part of the folklore of Eastern Township barn dances even today. Driving by the location where it burned down I can still sense the spirit. The barn may not exist but the spirit lives on.

Expo 67

We climbed aboard the big yellow bus in the high school parking lot early one morning, heading for what was supposed to be a day of education in world culture at Expo 67. I don't recall the weather much, but it must have been nice because there was a buzz as everyone boarded in their finest "go to Sherbrooke" outfits. Our geography teacher (I think it was Mrs. McLeod, but I can't be sure) had prepped us on World Fairs and the historical and cultural importance of the Expo in Montreal. She helped us plan our trip and virtually "walked" us through the international pavilions and exhibits, with each country showing off their stuff. Of course, my cultural interest was piqued by the international beer offerings, including a Bavarian Biergarten.

The newly completed Eastern Townships Autoroute took us through some of Canada's most scenic views, past mountains and rolling hills from Mount Orford to Bromont and Granby. After exhausting our repertoire of mandatory bus songs like "99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall," we finally reached Montreal. Crossing the Champlain Bridge, the cityscape of Montreal's tall buildings greeted us. Having lived there a few times due to my dad's military career, it wasn't new to me, but it still impressed (and still does).

We did get our fill of worldly culture that day. The morning was spent checking out interesting stuff, including a monorail ride and visits to highlighted pavilions. As the afternoon dragged on, I convinced a few friends to sneak off (names withheld to protect their reputations) for some "cultural research" in the form of international beer and spirits tasting. One of us, with a doctored driver's license bribed with free drinks (not naming names), scored us drinks. My contribution to learning world culture included a shot of Russian vodka, Italian black Sambuca, and a large stein of Bavarian beer. Funny, I forgot to include that in my trip report for the next geography class.

The trip back was uneventful and seemed to fly by, likely because I slept most of the way home. Some of the younger teachers who accompanied us might have had their suspicions about our cultural escapade but kept quiet. Not a shocker, considering some had previously joined us for Friday nights at the Sawyerville Hotel.

The class trip

Despite Quebec City being the capital of Quebec Province, our graduating class knew very little about it. We remembered the Battle of the Plains of Abraham from history class, but beyond that, zilch. So, the Grade 11 class trip to mix experiencing history with "La joie de vivre" seemed like an obvious choice. Turns out, some of us focused a bit too much on the "La joie de vivre" part.

The train ride to Quebec City was a blur. I vaguely remember departing from Union Station in Sherbrooke, but the rest? Poof, gone. My first clear memory of Quebec City was checking into the Old Homestead Hotel. Tom Statton and I were quick to find hiding spots for the vodka mickies we stashed in our suitcases. Tom and I shared one room, while Carolyn and some of the grade 11 girls were in another room or just down the hall. After the teachers' bed check, most of the late-night partying for the wild bunch took place in one of our rooms.

Before the trip, our history teacher asked us to research activities we wanted to experience in Quebec City. These would be voted on based on their historical, social, or cultural importance, and what we might learn from them firsthand. I suggested we needed to learn more about the cultural influences of music and beer. Google didn't exist at the time, so we resorted to the multi-volume Encyclopedia Britannica, which proved useless for Quebec City nightlife. Someone (who remains a legend) found a book or newspaper article on "nightlife in Quebec City." La Sauterelle was mentioned as the go-to venue for the younger crowd, so Tom and I vowed to explore its mirror ball dance culture.

Old Quebec's cobblestone streets were lined with artisans showcasing their work. An art gallery on the corner opposite the hotel caught our eye, mostly because the owner had a sidewalk display we could see from our third-floor window. Tom and I pretended to admire the fine art while secretly asking for the quickest route to La Sauterelle.

Following the directions, we wound our way through side streets and stumbled upon a lively bar with music spilling out onto the street. Friendly guys smoking on the sidewalk made it more inviting with their friendly banter in French, but our language skills were rusty despite passing all our French exams. We decided to grab a quick beer before heading to La Sauterelle. I ordered a Labatt Cinquante, and Tom went for a Molson, if I remember correctly. Inside, a small dance floor and a strategically placed mirror ball awaited us. A couple of guys were dancing to Sly and the Family Stone's "Dance to the Music." At first, it didn’t seem unusual—after all, beer was involved. But as more guy couples joined in, and a quick scan of the room confirmed the absence of girls we realized it wasn't our scene, and besides we couldn't decide on who would lead and who would follow.

The rest of the night at La Sauterelle was a blur of fun, music, and "la joie de vivre." By the time we returned to the hotel, the rest of the class trip was a haze. I think I slept through the entire train ride back to Sherbrooke. Needless to say, my adventures in the nightlife underworld didn't make it into my trip report.

The end of the beginning

All good things do come to an end and so it was with high school, another check mark in the circle of life. The grade 10 class had spent the week transforming the gym into an enchanting under-the-ocean scene. The girls were busy choosing their graduation dresses, getting their hair done and doing whatever girls do. The boys reluctantly had to get a haircut, polish their Sunday shoes and dig a dusty suit and tie out of the closet. But most of the time was spent on cleaning up the car. A new air freshener and fuzzy dice were hung on the rear view mirror, the outside was buffed to a brilliant shine and the gas tank was filled for a long night ahead.

That night is now but a distant memory of music, dancing and letting loose at the end of what seemed at the time to be a long journey, but looking back now it was just a fleeting moment. We had come to that proverbial fork in the road where we had to make choices which would shape the rest of our lives. It was a bit scary at first, realizing that you were now the master of your own destiny, but it was an exciting time as well knowing that you had the freedom to set your sails in any direction that would satisfy your dreams. I decided to take a few months to figure it out. Working at the lumber yard was the current option so I stayed on there till the fall. Alfred Young and I planned on a motorcycle trip to the West Coast the first summer out of school.  I don't remember why we didn't do it but I would guess that it was probably because we didn't have motorcycles……….or money.

Somewhere around this time and I don't remember exactly whether it was the night of the graduation or some other time Bill Raymond had a graduation party at his parents cottage on a lake somewhere near North Hatley.  I don't recall much about it other than waking up in Bob Blair's barn on a bale of hay with the sound of cows being milked and a calf licking my face.

All my rowdy friends have settled down.

Fast forward to today:  The high school days are just a distant memory. Some grew up. Others didn't. Some achieved their dreams. Some didn't. Some have experienced major life challenges and some continue to struggle with various forms of life's irony. Cracking open another bottle has taken on a whole new meaning. Yesterday it meant let's party some more. Today it's most likely a reference to opening a fresh bottle of Robaxacet or Advil. The groans and noises we make now, trying to get off of the Lazyboy aren't an expression of passion . For those of us that still have hair we don't have a Beatles cut or an Afro and certainly don't object to the barber's senior discount. I rarely get carded at the Beer Store any more but it gets a chuckle now and then when I do. Thoughts of "settling down" in our younger years can now be translated into "Time for a nap".

The spirit of Sawyerville High lives on

When some of us of my generation get together quite often the conversation (after the second beer) reverts to "Remember when we………………………?" Funny how we can't remember what we had for lunch or where we left our glasses but we can remember very clearly what happened 60 years ago. I take this as further evidence that the spirit of SHS will last forever.