I never really understood why I was being sent away to Vernon Preparatory School for Boys, a boarding school, a one hour train ride up the Okanagan Valley, from our home in Kelowna BC. But I didn’t resist, I was an obedient English son, not given to pushing back on what I was being told to do.

It was 1961 and by now I was finding my way in this new land, since we had emigrated three years ago. I had made friends, spent the free summers swimming in the lake, hiking in the hills above Okanagan Mission south of town, I’d joined Cubs and had overnight campouts. We had a dog ‘Pongo’, our happy little cocker spaniel who was always in some sort of trouble; never really learning that skunks will turn tail and let him have it, or coming home from running in the fields next to our house, his face covered in porcupine quills. My mother and father learned from their expat friends that tomato juice was the solution for skunking and a pair of pliers was the answer for the quills. Very soon our larder was always stocked with large cans of tomato juice and it wasn’t for us, we couldn’t stand it.

And I was happy. “What’s next mummy?” was never asked, on account of what was next was just around the next corner. This country was fantastic for an inquisitive young English boy. But for my mother and father, not so much. By now, three years later they were facing the reality of the choice they had made, perhaps they even debated returning to England, although for my father that was something which would never happen. Their decision had been met with great resistance back then and he would not give them the satisfaction of an “I told you so.”

So there they were, resolved to stay. I have come to think there is something in all that which found me at a boys boarding school in Vernon in the fall of 1961. The English school system at the time was highly structured and demanding with children being streamed off into university or vocational paths by the age of eleven, separated through the notorious ‘O’ Levels, exams which would for all intents and purposes determine the trajectory of your life going forward. That was a system they understood.

The Canadian school system was not the same and by my parents standards fell far short of what they thought their sons needed. This Vernon Prep School, this is what they understood; a Spartan ‘good for the boys character, no nonsense, make your own way, school experience’. It is what they would have done had we remained in England. We would have been sent off to school at eleven. It is what generations of Peytons’ had always done.

I must have been a tad bit confused, if I may give way to understatement for a moment. I was a good boy, easy to raise, respectful of authority and I do remember thinking as I lay in my dorm bed that first September night in Vernon, Gibson on the one side, Fraser Minor on the other, “What, what did I do wrong? Why have they sent me here?”

Now lest you are now feeling sorry for young Master Tony, or Peyton Minor as he came to be called in Vernon, I have fond memories of my year at that school and it was most certainly one of the most formative years of my life.

Vernon Preparatory School was positioned as a university preparatory school but in reality as I was quick to learn, a bit of a dumping ground for all manner of wayward children. There were only sixty five boys in grades 3 – 9. We were to be called by our last name and if there were more than one brother an old Latin suffix was to be attached. Accordingly I was Peyton Minor, or Minor for short. My brother Clive, Peyton Major. There were four Frost brothers from a well to do West Vancouver family, Frost Maximus, Frost Major, Frost Minor and Frost Minimus. This was the structure my parents understood.

By the time I arrived at Vernon Prep I had advanced two grades. I’ll leave it to others to adjudicate the wisdom of all that, all I know is that this acceleration through two grades informed my entire life. But none of that mattered to young Minor. I was a fish out of water, dropped into a foreign land. I would have to dance as fast I could to navigate this treacherous landscape.

Sunday after dinner was Bath Night. The upstairs dorm washroom and toilets were longer than wider, running about seventy feet with showers, baths and toilets lining one wall, sinks along the other.

Each Sunday night Mrs. Twite, the headmaster’s wife and the school matron would sit side by each at the doorway and supervise as we had our mandatory baths.

Mrs. Twite had a severe countenance and held a riding crop in her left hand; no horses to be seen, I was initially confused about its purpose but that would soon enough come clear. The matron was older and heavy, so much so that she was unable to cross her legs as she sat at the doorway beside Mrs. Twite, unfortunate indeed for the young Minor as he walked, naked and clean up to the doorway for The Inspection, horrified as I recall with the unavoidable image of Matron, knees apart, not knowing where he should direct his innocent eleven year old eyes.

Minor was instructed to stand at attention in front of the two ladies, whereupon Mrs. Twite would smack him on the flank with her riding crop. Smack, turn a quarter, smack turn a quarter, smack turn a quarter. Smack, the full turn completed. Astonished as you may find yourself reading this story, perhaps even disbelieving, let me leave this anecdote with two comments. The first is, your disbelief notwithstanding, the story is impeccably accurate. The second is that I don’t perceive it caused any lasting damage. I was eleven, I was not a deep thinker. I figured it was weird but that was on them. For me it was water off a duck’s back, or perhaps more accurately, water off a naked and Inspection confirmed clean eleven year old boy’s back.

And then there was Hoyme, my very own Darth Vader. Hoyme was sixteen, a fully grown version of a malevolent juvenile delinquent, a young boy who had fought life with a focused rage, sent away to Vernon Prep in the expectation that it would bring him to rein. And the worst of it, Hoyme was in grade 7, with me! I had skipped two grades and Hoyme had been held back three grades. What could possibly go wrong?!

The Minor – Hoyme collision was inevitable. Hoyme did not like me from ‘hello’. I had given him no reason of course, he just didn’t like me. I no doubt represented everything he was not and that alone would have been sufficient. He would scare me at night, nudge me in the changing room, just generally bully me randomly and all the time. He was even intimidating for the prefects so was essentially free to roam, a foreboding presence in the halls of the school. And the worst of it for young Minor, early in the first term I had no friends yet, nobody to help me deal with Hoyme. And so it went for some weeks.

Hoyme was of course an equal opportunity bully, so in a few weeks those of us who had to deal with him found ourselves joined in common purpose. Minor and his cadre of Anti Hoymites became an effective and reliable safety net; one prepubescent eleven year old was easy pickings for Hoyme, seven of us, not so much.

And then a wonderful thing happened. Hoyme snuck out of the dorm one night and went into Vernon. He broke into a store, stole a baseball bat and glove and one thousand pieces of Double Bubble.

It is in these strange events I was to find my salvation. Hoyme returned to school that same night and in a fabulous display of criminal largesse gave every boy ten pieces of Double Bubble. Heading into the chapel that morning to sing a song and say a prayer we were all chewing large wads of pink gum and the school grounds were littered with yellow Double Bubble wrappers. In short order the RCMP arrived and carted Hoyme off in handcuffs, never to be seen again.

The Hallelujah chorus broke through in full voice. My life was good again, it was worth living. I could breathe free. Darth Vader had been vanquished. My survival two-step had seen me through this early life crisis.

Now for he headmaster Mr. Twite, our transgression could not go unpunished after all everyone of us, all sixty five boys prefects included had been complicit; we had accepted the delicious, chewy proceeds of Hoyme’s crime and we must in the best tradition of boarding schools, be held to account. It was in modern parlance, a teachable moment. An assembly followed, we were suitably chastised, prefects were instructed to gather cane switches from the willow thicket by the creek and we were told to line up outside the headmaster’s office to receive our punishment. Caning for everyone, three for each of us, four for the prefects, presumably for their failure to intervene. Such was the manner in which tomorrow’s leaders had to be taught.

I had sympathy for the prefects actually. I mean the gum was delicious! As for Minor, he did not care. Three lashes would not disturb his Hoyme free euphoria. To the front of the line I ran.

My brother Clive was a prefect and with that came beating privileges. Again, as gobsmacked as you may be, I promise that all of this is true. Prefects were allowed to beat us with a running shoe on our bare arses, without right of appeal or review. Clive never beat me nor did he threaten to, my recollection being that he was by nature measured and a good prefect.

In fact Mr. Goody Two Shoes, aka Minor, never ran afoul of any prefects, perhaps because they didn’t intimidate me. I had met my Dor, nothing could stop me now. Or perhaps Clive just made it clear that his little brother was out of bounds.

For a boy who loved sports Vernon Prep was Disneyland. Two hours of sports were mandatory everyday. I was a good athlete and punched above my weight in most sports, making the school soccer team, cross country team, cricket team, badminton team and boxing team. I made it to the Parent’s Sports Day in the badminton and boxing finals. My spirits were high. Mum and Dad would be there and I was pretty sure I could win both. And then Fate piped up.

Our boxing coach Mr. Homer-Dixon, a jut jawed, steely eyed former drill instructor, complete with a bullet hole in his stomach acquired in some far off land, took me aside to tell me I would be fighting Gibson, not Fraser Minor, in the finals. That would be Gibson Major, all thirteen years of age, 5’7” 120 pounds Gibson Major. I have told you I punched above my weight when it came to sports, not a bad description of my athleticism for most sports, but not as I was to learn shortly, not much help in boxing. Turns out it is challenging in boxing to ‘punch above your weight’ when you are eleven, 5’2”and 105 pounds and facing Gibson Major. I was not going to do well.

So the bell signalling Round 1 rang and I approached Gibson resigned to my Fate. I would give him what I could and make my father, The Major, proud of his young son.

Blood it turns out really does ‘pop’ off crisp white T-shirts and shorts.

Gibson just came to the middle of the boxing ring, put out his long left extendo arm, held me at bay and punched me at will. To my credit I battled through all three rounds and I achieved my goal, which I had recently changed from ‘Go out there and win the boxing medal’ to ‘Go out there and don’t cry’. That goal achieved, I received the reward I most cared about, the kind words of my proud father.

I’m still not quite sure why my memories of my year at Vernon Preparatory School for Boys are so happy. As I read my account I can’t imagine how that was the case. But it was a good and memorable year, a year in my young life that was vivid and experienced and stood in sharp contrast to anything I had known to date. As I look back it occurs to me that this was the first time in my life that I had to fend for myself, to make my way through unexpected challenges, no parents close by to get me out of a jam.

The human spirit is inquisitive and resilient and resourceful and my year at Vernon Prep tested all of that. It was for me, whether the boy or man version of Tony, someone born with an insatiable appetite for ‘what’s next’ and for living and for life’s experiences, it was a full meal, a buffet of experience and memories I would feast on my whole life. And it was a yarn just waiting to be told.