Foremost on my Mind: A Boy Called Norman

 

He was born approximately halfway between the end of World War II and the beginning of the Vietnam War, around the time Korean War was starting. He came sometime after the Big Band sound had, well, toned down, and a clear decade before Paul, Ringo, John, and George (that would be the Beatles, Maurice) showed up on the Ed Sullivan Show.

I'm not sure how disappointed his parents were at having a fourth son, but they were half anticipating a girl. Had he been a "she," her name was to be Patricia. As it was, they named he and his brothers with the conventional two names, only to call each boy by his second name. Had he gone with his first name, he would have been called Norman.

The past 27 years have gone by in a flash for Norman. No, the math is good, people: He's 57 tomorrow, but the last half of his life has flown by like a bird with its tail feathers on fire, The first thirty years seemed to drag; the last nearly-thirty have whizzed by (and getting 'whizzier' by the decade) so fast, he has trouble remembering whether such-and-such an event was last month or last year. Either way, it reflects the stage of life he's at.

When Norman was in public school, back in the '60s and '70s, he was an average student, a poor athlete, but a popular classmate. Back then, all his classmates came from two-parent homes, the Lord's Prayer was recited every morning, and the strap was an effective deterrent to mouthing off the teacher. There was no gum, no iPod, and most definitely no hats in class.

As Norman got older, life changed somewhat: The rural municipality that he was raised in started to grow up, and all its citizens got culture shock. It went from a charming farming community to a bustling metropolis almost overnight. One may even say that Richmond—made up of many islands, including the main one, Lulu Island—is now Hong Kong's largest suburb. More precisely, of the 100,000 people that call Richmond home, 75,000 are ethnic Chinese.

Another change was his own personal growth--the character type, if you will. Because he had to work hard even to get average grades, when he ended up at the University of British Columbia (UBC), the transition was quite easy. You see, unlike his naturally smart classmates, he continued to work hard, and—surprise, surprise—did okay on the Point Grey campus. Not great, but certainly acceptable; in fact, better than when he was in high school.

He ended up training for a teacher, even though his first love was writing. But being the obedient son that he was, when his dad suggested a teaching career out of UBC, rather than a writing career out of Western Washington State College, he did what dad said. Funny how that probably wouldn't go over as well these days.

Two things demand comment here for Norman: One, he doesn't remember a thing he learned in the four years of teacher training; and two, the last thing he wanted to do when he got his glorious receipt, er, degree, was to teach school. That desire came two decades later, as did all the necessary life skills to run an effective classroom. Those life skills were honed at the diningroom table, in the other "school of life," also known as raising a family.

So Norman plods on. Mountains and valleys, joys and sorrows, good days and bad, pink slips and red flames. Alberta's been good to he and his family. Funny though, there isn't one thing that he had plans for back in 1977 (the year he graduated from university) that he is doing today. And yet through it all, he has been preserved by a divine force beyond and outside of himself, namely, a good Heavenly Father who has guided him all the way.

So, here's hoping that the next thirty years won't be quite as fast as the last thirty. Happy birthday to me, Norman Craig Funston.