Thank You, Mr. Urquhart

Every year in February, in conjunction with dog sled races held in a nearby town, local schools hold a story writing competion. This year, along with three other members of my writers' group, I am one of the judges. I take my judicial responsibilities very seriously, because these young authors are the same age I was when a similar competition sparked my initial interest in creative writing.

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When I was in grade five, we had a special teacher for composition. His name was Mr. Urquhart, and I liked him very much, primarily because he wasn’t our regular teacher, Mr. McLennan. Mr. McLennan had a scary, boomy voice, and he frequently wanted me to answer questions even when I hadn’t held up my hand, which confused me, because I thought by keeping my hand down, I had made it abundantly clear I didn’t know the answer. Mr. Urquhart, on the other hand, had a soft voice and an exotic accent I found fascinating. He always wore a three piece suit, his hair puffed out around his head exactly like a dandelion ready to be blown, and all he ever did was read stories, then asked the class what we thought about them. Even as a child, I was highly opinionated, so could always hold up my hand during his lessons.

One day, Mr. Urquhart told us the school was holding a story writing competition, and if any of us wanted to enter, we should hand in our compositions the following week. I had no intention of entering. At the time, I was still under the naïve impression my destiny lay in archeology. But then Mr. McLennan announced that those students who entered the story writing contest were excused from the weekend homework assignment, which was a one page essay on the British North America Act. (For my non-Canadian friends, the BNA is the Canadian equivalent of the American Declaration of Independence.) The decision became a no-brainer. I’m pretty sure the entire class entered the competition. To this day, I’ve no idea how Canada became Canada.

Since I was entering the contest anyway, I decided I might as well win it. I needed a story so amazing it would knock the judges’ socks right off. The most exciting story I’d ever read was C. S. Lewis’ The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, so I set my story on a sailing ship. The characters were a pirate (based on Zorro), a princess (based on me), and a dog (based on our neighbor’s inappropriately named Irish setter, Juanita).  There were swordfights and storms, wormy biscuits, lots of rum, and a sea monster (based on a crabby old neighbor from down the street). For my blowout climax, I toppled the princess overboard and had her rescued by the dog, which subsequently drowned before anyone could rescue it. The last scene, a soppy paean to the nobility of man’s best friend, was so emotionally charged I cried myself to sleep when I finished writing it on Sunday night.

On Monday morning, I proudly submitted my cliché-riddled masterpiece to Mr. Urquhart, convinced I would win the contest. I didn’t. But I did get honorable mention for most imaginative entry, and enjoyed a brief period in the limelight when Mr. Urquhart read my composition to the class; his soft, strange voice making my words seem even more dramatic and exciting than when I wrote them. I can still remember looking around the spellbound class and feeling pride that I’d written such an amazing story. That was the exact moment I decided I had a talent for writing.

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So now, as I read through these stories themed around dog sled racing, I’m determined to say something positive about each submission. A creative heart beats in every child’s breast. My job today is to celebrate that heart, the way Mr. Urquhart celebrated mine.