I had just completed the one-year Education course at University of Alberta and was back in my home town enjoying a much-needed break. Strolling along the main drag, I ran into one of my former teachers. He inquired politely about my career plans: my reply staggered him Teaching? Right here in Clarseholm And I could see, running through his brain, visions of a former student - namely me - clomping down the school corridors in his lumber jack boots with a cigarette pack peering out of his flannel shirt pocket. Bad enough as a student, but as a colleague Intolerable Uttering feeble congratulations, he lurched off down the street, muttering and likely heading to the nearest pub. Such was the rather ignominious start to my twenty-five-year teaching career and I wouldn't trade one of them for another calling (although there was the odd day I could have done without).
One of the crowning moments, however, came as I was winding up my five-year teaching stint in Uganda, East Africa, . A student addressing the farewell assembly, said, " Mr. Peters, although you are white, you have a black heart." High praise indeed