Gordon Harrison

I spent a fair chunk of my pay cheque from Maedel's Red & White store each week on LPs on sale at Bill Smith's pool room and on 45s at Gord Powell's appliance store, both on Main St., Norwich. Likely because I had a good-sized collection of records and I tirelessly pestered the powers-that-be at NDHS, I was allowed to spin discs on Fridays at after-school dances. I was also allowed access to a microphone to introduce songs, announce 'snow ball dances' and crack wise on rare occasions. One Friday afternoon, during the tail end of another class's gym time, I started to organize records, equipment etc. for the upcoming dance and, feeling rather bold behind the protection of the stage curtains, I put a record on and said a few words into the microphone. "Turn it off," someone yelled from the gym floor. "And who says so?" I shot back. Before I could spit out another word the curtains parted and the gym teacher (Mr. Doxtator?), his face as red as his hair, nailed me with the words, "I do!"
That, unfortunately, was just one of 4,587 times I should have kept my mouth shut.

What have I been up to since 1953? First, I turned five in 1954 and entered the school system. Grades K - 13 took up a lot of my time but, in hindsight, seemed to fly by. I graduated from Gr. 13 in June, 1968. A year at university, followed by a year at teachers' college, were very exciting and only left me with a small amount of debt by today's standards. (I should have it all paid down by 2013). My wife Pat and I met and married in 1970 and would describe the last 40 years as both challenging ("I thought you paid the telephone bill last month!") and rewarding ("Our grandchildren are the cutest kids on earth"). Though I have 7405 characters remaining, I'll finish quickly by saying that I love the relaxing routine I've maintained since June 2002. Most mornings - coffee, computer time and refill before noon. Many afternoons - woodworking in the workshop or motorcycling along the north shore of Lake Erie until suppertime. Coronation St. and the newspaper after supper. (Unless it's tax time - then the routine is shot out the window).