This strange man lept onto his desk. Wielding a yardstick, he thrust it toward a student thusly, illustrating how the Roman legionnaires would use their gladius, or sword, when in contact with the enemy.
The class, all now wide awake, sitting upright with eyes wide open, stared. I'm sure some jaws dropped, and perhaps some feared that if they fell asleep, they could find themselves skewered on the yardstick gladius of Mr. McVey.
Welcome to history, Dave McVey style.
A week ago I got an e-mail of a scanned Yorkton This Week obituary of my favourite teacher in the whole world. David McVey passed away on July 3, a decade after contracting a form of cancer that usually gives you months, not years.
Mr. McVey was my history teacher at the Yorkton Regional High School for two terms. He was also my debate coach. When our previous coach bailed on the team, we essentially drafted him, and were the better for it. He was the most animated speaker I have ever seen, both vocally and physically. His booming bass voice could make a room shake, while his wild eyes through Coke-bottle glasses were so energetic, they could have been used to boost a car. Debate practices, what some might consider to be the nerdiest of the nerd events, were something to look eagerly forward to, at least for me. Our team sent several people to national competitions in those years, although sadly, I wasn't one of them.
I put a call out to my high school friends on Facebook, asking for some anecdotes. Roxanne Andreae (Hanline) wrote, "Mr. McVey standing on a desk happened at least once a year I think. He kicked a textbook at someone who was sleeping at the back of the class one time."
Indeed, one did not fall asleep in his class, or give lip. That was a sure sign you were to be punted, metaphorically, from the class.
Twila Seeley, who, if my recollection is correct, might have been one of the punted, said he was "without a doubt one of my most memorable teachers, in fact the only one in the world who could have made social studies interesting to me ... I will never forget him."
David Peeace wrote, "I remember his rendition of the two beaver trappers meeting one from the Hudson Bay Company and the other from the NorthWest company, with accents of course."
Nolan Berg added, "He stood on the desk and was known to kick the garbage can around the room to emphasize how one army destroyed another in some battle ... I also recall how, on the first day of Grade 12 history, he drew a timeline on the chalkboard to illustrate how much Canadian history there was compared to the total scope of world history. He drew the line from the far end of one chalkboard, straight across the other, over the door, window, wall, light switch, etc. to make two narrow parallel lines at the very end at the back of the room, 'just to keep the subject matter of this whole class in perspective.' You can all picture it!"
For our year end review, the last week before the big, scary final, we didn't pour over our notes or textbook. No, we were handed the words to Billy Joel's song We Didn't Start the Fire, and had to figure out what it meant (50 years of history summed up in three minutes).
When I first heard he had cancer 10 years ago, I made a point of dropping by his house, just to say hello, and in a way, goodbye, because at the time, things weren't looking good. I left with a tear in my eye, expecting it wouldn't be long. That he was able to live his life to the fullest for another decade is a testament to a man whose spirit could not be conquered.
If just 10 per cent of teachers in this world could be like him, we would be immeasurably better for it. If that number were half, kids wouldn't be dropping out of school. I personally mimicked many of his mannerisms and techniques while teaching air cadets as their training officer for several years.
Mr. McVey didn't start the fire, either. As the song's chorus says, "It was always burnin,' since the world's been turnin.'"
He just made that fire burn a lot brighter.
- Brian Zinchuk is editor of Pipeline News. He can be reached at [email protected].
