Feeling the glow after meeting up with my always witty friend, Mary, in Kensington Market last week, I took my time, pulling out of the Green P parking lot, smiling and reflecting on how much great stuff we can pack into our one hour visits but it’s never enough time.

As I drove past the eclectic food and clothing stores, I’m not sure why, but I noticed her. This woman dressed in a long black winter coat, a grey woolen scarf wrapped around her neck to just below her nostrils, her big brown eyes peeking out, and two distinct grey braids cascading down past her shoulders, framing her oval face. Perhaps, it was the way she walked, her body perfectly erect, that made me glance again. Then it hit me, “That’s my grade 4 teacher, Ms. Tadman from Snowcrest Public School,” the sexy red-headed woman who undressed down to her lacy black brassiere in front of us to change for gym. The very same woman who inspired us 9 year-old girls to be feminists, to be proud of our sprouting breasts, maybe even forfeit our bras, and to stand up for Aboriginal rights.

This out-of-this-world creature who seemed to have dropped in from a different galaxy, was way ahead of her time. She taught us to not be wasteful, when in those days, people were regularly dumping their garbage out the windows of their cars. She talked about recycling and  helped us convert our empty milk cartons to grow mung beans. She told us to use less toilet paper, to write poetry, to wear what we want, and to dance freely in the middle of our cluttered classroom that smelled of animal shit, urine, woodchips and wonder.  An ardent animal rights activist, Ms. Tadman let each of us have a pet of our own to care for in our classroom. I chose a rat, which I coddled and cuddled. Others picked gerbils that escaped daily and tragically got fried in the sideboard heaters. Some of my classmates liked snakes, and we had a few pigeons that flew around and landed on our shoulders while we read.

Ms. Tadman was also a bit scary sometimes and although she smoked profusely, said the “F” word out loud, was probably stoned during class, and drove a hearse from the 50’s, with checkered curtains covering the back window, her grade 4 class in 1972 was an absolute wonderland. Ms. Tadman, was nothing less than a Goddess to me and my little girl friends, and I’m sure the boys also probably thought she was amazing and hot, but 9- year-old girls back then, wouldn’t be talking about such things with the boys. I sure wonder what the principal was thinking when he peeped in to catch a sniff.

Think of the Broadway hit rock musical, Spring Awakening, which captures teenage angst to perfection, and that was exactly what was happening in the middle of the winter in my grade 4 class.

The snow was falling and I could hardly see as I rushed to park the car in front of Burrito Boy on Augusta Avenue. I didn’t buy a parking ticket and ran into the bakery where I saw her last. I took a deep breath of warm air, and moved quickly to the back of the store.  But I didn’t know what to do and just stood beside her as she slowly picked each bun and dropped them into her brown paper bag.

I smiled at her- pretending to choose some biscuits- and maybe she smiled back- but her scarf hid any sign of connection. I’m not a shy person but this larger than life figure that I had remembered so well, was not all that friendly and all I could do was  examine more loaves of multigrain bread which I didn’t intend to buy.

I am usually relentless about reconnecting with people from my past, especially these days, and would have introduced myself as I had done so many times in the past to bad ex boyfriends, nursery school mates who stuck their snot on me, ballet teachers who failed me consecutively for botched plies, and guys that dragged me along to their cousin’s wedding on our first and only date or were bad kissers.

I wanted to leap out and say “Hey Ms. Tadman, it’s me…I know I’m turning 50 but do you remember me when I was 9? I sure remember you!” ….but for some reason I couldn’t remember her first name which made the whole situation all the more awkward.

Then I thought, maybe I didn’t want to tamper with my image of Ms. Tadman who was pretty much a Goddess in my mind. Maybe the real and now, Ms. Tadman, suffered from Dementia, or became an alcoholic, or had bad breath.

I will never know because I just trudged away, looked back at the cookies with sprinkles on the shelf, paused and listened for that familiar husky voice as she slowly paid the cashier.

Gertrude Stein