What knives do you carry?
Carl Jung carried around the remnants of a bread knife that mysteriously shattered into pieces inside his sideboard. I think he kept it as a symbol of something for which he had no adequate explanation.
I have my own mystery, safely tucked in my head and like Jung’s knife, it defies explanation—but is strangely comforting.
It began when I was eight years old and my family was living in a very old row house in Toronto. The house was built in the 1880’s and had a dirt cellar and a coal chute. It constantly creaked and made strange noises. My Nanny told me it had ghosts.
I saw a ghost there one night in Nanny’s room. The creaking house had frightened me and I scampered down the hall and crawled in beside her. Later, I was awakened by a noise. I peered over her sleeping form and saw a man in top hat admiring himself in the dresser mirror.
He was dressed in the style of a bygone age and was quite a dandy. He stood preening himself, twisting his moustache and delighting in his reflection. But then, he glanced up and saw me. He glowered and I sheltered behind Nanny, hiding under the covers.
“Did you look again to see he was gone?” Billy asked.
I shook my head.
“Why not?”
“Too scared, I guess.”
Billy pushed his glasses up on his nose and gave me a disdainful look.
“I would have gotten out of bed and told him if he didn’t get out of there, I’d call my father.”
I gazed at Billy in admiration. Billy was a pudgy science nerd with coke-bottle glasses and a penchant for acting rash. The week before he had carried out an experiment involving burning things in the wood furnace—his father found telltale ashes on the floor.
I wondered how eager Billy’s father would be to chase a ghost at three am.
Most of what happened to me back then, I kept a secret. I was a dark, brooding boy—a perpetual observer. I found it hard to share my feelings—and Billy hadn’t helped in that respect. I resolved to be even more discreet in the future.
That fall, I went into Grade Three and my teacher was Miss Tracy—she was a beautiful, young girl with long blonde hair and a soft voice. She liked me—Why, I don’t know, but I soon became her project.
Maybe it was my dark brooding stare—maybe she just thought I was needy. Who knows? But quickly enough, her fidelity to me was tested.
Patrick brought in a huge magnifying lens for show and tell. It was larger than a dinner plate and very powerful. We all wanted to look through it and I got to do that more than the others because Patrick was my friend.
He put the lens inside his desk and we all went out for recess. When we returned the lens was gone.
Miss Tracy didn’t panic.
“Now, I’m sure someone knows where the lens is, so just tell me and it’ll be all right.”
The silence was deafening. Donald MacDonald, who was ten years old and still in grade three, shouted out. “Someone stole it.”
Miss Tracy was horrified. “I’m sure no one stole it, Donald—they just meant to look at it and now they’re frightened to return it.”
“Like I said, they stole it,” Donald yelped.
Miss Tracy stood him in the corner.
When I acted out, she allowed me to sit under her desk. I liked that—especially when she sat down and I could be close to her and the red and yellow tartan skirt she wore. Tartans would forever more be bound up in my mind with the colours of autumn leaves and Miss Tracy’s skirt.
“We can figure out who stole it,” I told Patrick at lunch.
“How can we do that?”
“We’ll make a list of all the pupils and cross off the ones we saw in the schoolyard.”
Patrick was excited. “It’ll be like Sherlock Holmes.”
By the time the dismissal bell sounded, Patrick and I had narrowed our list to two girls and a boy.
“No way a girl would take it,” Patrick concluded.
That left Donald MacDonald. We made up our minds to confront him at morning recess.
The next morning, however, after we said prayers, we were all trouped down to the principal’s office. Mother Charlotte was a no-nonsense type who decided to take matters into her own hands.
One by one, students would go into her office, come out and return to class. Then, it was my turn. I looked at Patrick and he gave me the thumbs up sign.
I entered the unfamiliar room and was greeted by the diminutive nun standing by a statue of Mary, fingering the black rosary beads tied round her waist.
“Come closer, Paul,” she whispered. I obeyed.
She stared deeply into my eyes. “Did you take the lens?”
“No, Mother.”
She patted my head. “Good boy. Then, you can go back to class.”
Within minutes the class reassembled and the morning routine began—Spelling, followed by Reading and then, recess.
We were reading a story about a boy who lived in a river valley. He was all alone in the house and a gnome came by—apparently, he had been drawn by the aroma of mutton the boy was roasting on the fire.
I thought it odd the boy would be trusted to tend the fire when Billy definitely would not be allowed.
Suddenly, Miss Tracy announced, “Okay, it’s close to recess. Put away your books.”
I slid my reader into the slot beneath my desk and my hand touched something smooth and round. My heart sank. I pulled on it and Patrick’s huge lens slid out onto my lap. I had no recourse, but to raise my hand.
“Miss Tracy," I croaked in a shaky voice, "I found this in my desk.”
Her face fell. She saw the startled looks of my classmates, and quickly recovered.
“That’s all right, Paul. We know you didn’t take it. Somebody did and put it back in your desk. Now, let’s all stand and pray and thank God for returning the lens.”
“Yeah, but we all know who took it,” Donald yelped.
“That’s enough, Donald—you can remain behind.”
At recess, I was a pariah—shunned by all. I sought out my older brother, Michael, in the sixth grade and spent the recess with him and his friends.
When we returned to class, Donald was sullen and dark. His hands were red and swollen and he kept licking them until Miss Tracy put him out in the hall.
When we left for lunch, she gave me a look of profound sadness.
I didn’t return that afternoon. I had a stomach ache and stayed home.
Later, when school was out, I came outside. All the neighbourhood kids were gathering leaves into a huge pile and jumping in.
I joined in and we did this for about ten minutes until one of us saw Billie had found a mysterious black rock.
“It’s really weird, “ he said, “It’s warm to the touch. Watch this—”
He struck the rock against the sidewalk and dull red sparks flashed out.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s a flint, stupid—like what they use in lighters to make a spark.”
Billy did seem to know quite a bit about making fire—in fact, all of us huddled around him in the gathering dusk watching him strike sparks.
We must have resembled the painting of cavemen in the library entitled, Man Discovers Fire.
We each took a turn. Gradually, the house lights came on and each of us was called away to supper. Finally, it was only Billie and I left.
“Look, I can’t take this home—you know how my dad feels about fire.”
I nodded grimly.
“Hide it under your porch and we’ll play with it tomorrow.”
I nodded, just as we heard, Billieee! His mother was on the porch, beckoning him in.
I was alone with the stone. What should I do? Something spectacular, for sure. I was tired of striking sparks.
I knew! Throw it as high as I can and when it comes down and strikes the sidewalk—who knows what might happen?
I tossed it high to the stars, glimmering innocently in the purple sky. The rock described a perfect arc and came down with a mighty thud.
A huge white star, an orb, the size of the great Communion Host Father O’Toole offered each Sunday, appeared.
The white host emerged from the rock and then whooshed like a spiral sky rocket, flying directly at my face.
It halted and hung suspended in mid-air—right before my eyes.
I gazed into the host and saw the image of Miss Tracy’s lovely face.
I ran home terrified and it took me a few days to recover...
and so began my process of meditating on the wondrous happening.
It was something for which I had no adequate explanation and to this day I occasionally turn it over in my mind and relive the moment.
I’ve kept it as a memento of her and the special relationship we once shared.
