TALES FROM THE WORKPLACE FIRST PLACE

Violet St. Clair

I was there when he was born from a long roll of white stock paper we dragged from the art room. It was a great idea but there was no way I could do it, so I entrusted the task to Irene, the Grade 3 teacher. I stared at that long stretch of empty paper and saw nothing inspirational. A thought zinged by; how could Michelangelo have“ seen” David locked in a block of imperfect Carrara marble? I widened my eyes and willed my polar bear to show himself. Blank.“ He has to be four metres long.”“ Yes, I know, you said that. It can be done.

You’ ve decided it’ s male?”

“ Has to be male. Has to be four metres long for maximum effect. I don’ t know how you’ re going to do that and still keep true to the shape.” I was a bit nervous. Tomorrow we would start a new theme for November and I wanted the WOW factor right from the start. He’ d stretch across two bulletin boards, a sight to behold and the perfect launch into Canada’ s Mighty Polar Bears, our winter theme. Somehow, he came flowing out from her pencil, in stately walking mode with cute little ears and a well-rounded rump.

Come December, he’ d go into hibernation up in the Art Room until the next November, when I would roll him out for his grand entrance into the lives of a new set of students. Over the years he sustained many injuries, a rip here, a tear there, and many crumples and rumples. And once he simply went missing and was found on the top shelf of an obscure storage room. He never explained.

Now over seventeen years later, he is folded into a box and it is time for more downsizing. As I slowly unfurl him, I remember; the instantaneous jaw drops; the eyes rounding like giant winter coat buttons; the sharp intake of breath; the awed silence; the erupting squeals. He was a show stopper. But he must go. Every mug, picture, candle, or handmade whimsy cannot be saved forever, and as I look at the boxes before me, I know his time has come. A bitter sweet moment many educators encounter as they make room for new experiences and memories.

I cannot tear him up or throw him in a bin of old used papers. He nobly carried me and a few hundred wide-eyed eight-year-olds through many a November, regaling them with tales of his hunting prowess, his size, his habitat, and his ferocity. On a warm spring evening, he is curled up almost cozy, in a stone fire pit. We are both there. But I must be the one to send him off. All my happy November memories came out to say, adieu. I lit a match, murmured a thank you and sent him back to the land of imagination. Thank you, Frederick the Great.

SPRING 2026 | 47