Vol.9,
No.51, 2006 The
Darnest Thing By
Jane Hebden
My
first encounter with Cragmont
Tissle was on a crisp clear
September morning in 1973.
Actually, the starting morning
of my first teaching position.
His stooped form pushing
the wide gray janitor’s
broom startled me so that
I almost lost control of
the pyramid of spelling texts
I was so artfully trying
to balance. Slowly he raised
his long sagging face to
reveal dark fluid fish-like
eyes, made even more eerie
by the milky film of beginning
cataracts. Giving me a deliberate
nod he resumed his position
and continued down the hall.
I was pulled out of my trance
by the shrill ring of the
bell and the clamor grade
three students make on the
first day of school.
It did not take me long
to hear the gossip about
Mr. Tissle.
“If it’s broken,
he can fix it,” announced
the Vice-Principal.
“And no matter how
dirty, he can clean it!” chimed
in the music teacher. “Twenty-five
years he’s mopped these
floors and twenty-five years
he’s put up with screaming,
dirty and often cruel children.”
Dubbed Mr. Crabby Thistle
by the student body, he had
been victim to every sort
of prank. But, one in particular
had become a tradition. Ritually
a bouquet of field thistles
would be tied to his broom
handle. An attached note
read: “Thistles for
Mr. Thistle.” Each
time he’d stand, boney
hands on hips and cock his
head as if he had seen it
for the first time. Then
a grin would crack across
his normally stoic face.
One frigid February Monday
Mr. Tissle was not in the
halls. News of his passing
flooded the staff room. No
one was left untouched. Tears
and tissues flowed freely.
His memorial service was
filled with teachers, students
and parents.
“Cragmont was a simple
man,” stated his brother
Will. “He ventured
to the city from the family
farm in Rosser, Manitoba.
There, in his favourite pasture,
we’ll lay his ashes.
Cragmont loved his job and
all the mischievous children.
Alone in the city you all
became his family.”
A few years later, while
scouring the countryside
for new hiking trails, I
ended up near Rosser. On
a whim I decided to look
up the Tissle farm.
Soft spoken and kind, Will
was more then happy to show
me Cragmont’s resting
place. At the edge of a deep
green meadow, not five feet
away from me, grew the tallest
thistle bush I’d ever
seen. Shaking his head with
resignation Will looked over
at it.
“I have pulled that
thing out so many times that
I finally just gave up on
it. Everytime I yank it out
it just grows back thicker
and taller.” He sighed. “The
darnest thing.” He
shrugged. “The darnest
thing.”