This is a new initiative especially for Port Credit Secondary's 90th Anniversary. It's called "Port Credit Stories", and will be our way of bringing the history of PCHS and PCSS to life in a way that's never been done before.

School yearbooks are an excellent starting point - they have class pictures, grad pictures, and photos of all the clubs and sports teams. However, as enjoyable as they are to browse, they still don't capture the zeitgeist (the spirit of the times).

The true spirit of the school is not merely a collection of photos and grad comments; it's a series of memorable events and stories that span several generations. These are the stories you will share with your friends and relatives - the ones that you love to tell over and over again! Our most vivid high school experiences were probably not detailed in any yearbook, but make up many defining moments in our adolescence.

To commemorate Port Credit Secondary School's 90th Anniversary, we are going to try to capture what no yearbook has been able to achieve - the spirit of the school throughout the years. This spirit is contained in all of us, collectively, through our stories and other fond or humourous recollections. Together we hope to paint a unique and indelible portrait of PCHS/PCSS life during the past ninety years.

Please share with us, your best high school stories and memories - the ones that have never been written down - tales that evoke laughter, tears, joy, pride, satisfaction or frustration. Send us the stories that you would share over a beer with your closest friends. We want to preserve what you've experienced and share your memories with graduates from all decades. Help us capture the spirit of the past 90 years! The e-mail address is: pcstories@pcssreunions.com

Your stories will be posted below, in the order in which they are received, and can be any length.

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Port Credit Stories --- by Dan Crespi

I am so proud and passionate to be part of PCSS and the football teams of the 70s. We were not very good, but our passion for PCSS was second to none.

I lived south of the school so every morning I would come through the back gates and walk the length of the football field. We were scheduled to play our arch rival, Gordon Graydon, that day, and as I walked past the field as I was going to class, I noticed they had painted their colours on our goal posts and in the centre of the field.

This was not going to be taken lightly...

So I and a few others on the team decided to pay back the actions by imposing our brand name onto their school. Middle of the day - ya, stupid!!!

We were called down to the principal's office, and he reprimanded all of us for our actions. We were then assigned the task of removing the paint from the wall. The brick at Gordon Graydon was very porous. We removed the paint, but the chemical we were provided with left a lasting impression.

Drive by Gordon Graydon and you will still see "PCSS" embedded in their wall. We got 'em in the end!"

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Has Anyone Seen Arn? --- by Bob Yewchuk (1983)

One of my favourite memories from my days at PCSS in the early 1980s was the ubiquitousness of a certain fellow student: Arn Kashino. Arn was everywhere, or so it seemed - and he was always helping people. Some mornings, I would walk past Arn in the hallway, and then walk past him again two minutes later... going in the same direction!

If anyone asked "Have you seen Arn?", there would be as many different replies as there were people. While this seemed to be merely an odd and recurring coincidence, our cafeteria conversations soon revealed otherwise.

"Has anyone seen Arn this morning?"
"Yes, he was in the library, helping me with a math problem"
"He was in the washroom in the gym hallway, about two minutes ago"
"I just saw him in the music room, talking with Mr. Brezden"
"Arn gave me a ride to school in his jeep"
"Wait a minute - Arn gave me a ride to school this morning!"

Faced with this plethora of conflicting observations, many of which appeared to violate the immutable laws of physics, we theorized that there must be more than one Arn Kashino. Eventually, we arrived at a number. Based on some complicated mathematical algorithms, we deduced that there had to be at least 39 Arn Kashinos in the school, and in various locations around Mississauga.

Eventually, when the question of Arn's whereabouts was posed, we would answer "I saw Arn #5 in the library"; "I saw Arn #17 driving around Sherway Mall"; "I've got a class with Arn #26 next period".

While there was some talk of creating a catalogue, I don't believe that anything ever materialized... which is unfortunate, since it would have been a tremendous reference guide.

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Port Credit Memories --- by Lisa Marie (Hartley) Seeger (1983)

• Mr. Peené - absolutely the best English teacher I ever had - and the MOST eccentric. A classmate and I (not a proud moment but fun nonetheless) told him it looked like he'd gained a few pounds over Thanksgiving; we said it showed a little in his arms. He looked panicked, but very calmly and earnestly replied "Thank you Miss Hartley; I will lose the weight immediately!". Great teacher.
• Watching air guitar concerts in the cafeteria - great stuff.
• Skipping classes to play "Ms. Pacman" at the coffee shop down near Gray's Restaurant.
• Listening to April Wine being cranked out of the boys' Mustangs at the Credit River.

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Port Credit Memories --- by Peter Gagan

I attended one other Port Credit High School reunion a few years ago. I was in the area on business from Vancouver and read about it in the paper, so my wife and I decided to go. We were supposed to supply our graduation pictures for badges, and I had a choice, as I had graduated twice, in '59, and '60. The idea was to pass French, a necessity to get into engineering school, which was a waste of time as I flunked out of University anyway. MJ had no grad picture, and no others, as she'd skipped school as often as I had, so she substituted a photo of a young Audrey Hepburn.

On approaching, I was interviewed by a reporter from the Port Credit Weekly. He asked me where I was from. I told him, which prompted him to ask if we'd come especially for the reunion. I lied, saying "Yes".

"What year did you graduate?" was the next question. "59 and 60," I replied. "I never did pass French, but they gave it to me to get rid of me."

"Wow! Those were impressive years for Port Credit. Were you on the Golden Warriors football team?" he asked.
"No" was the reply.
"Were you on the Golden Warriors basketball team?"
"No" was the reply.
"Were you on the track and field team?"
"No" was the reply.
"Were you a member of the honour society?"
"No" was the reply.
"What were you noted for at Port Credit?"

I thought for a moment, and then replied, "I was considered a 'creep', at least by the girls. The term 'creep' has been replaced in recent times by terms such as 'nerd' and 'geek' although the latter suggests some degree of intellect which I was never noted for."

The reporter wrote furiously, and quoted me verbatim in the paper, which I really got a kick out of.

There is certainly no need to dwell upon the academic achievements of the author, which were certainly less than remarkable. While I mostly hated the six years I spent there, due to being a lousy student, and somewhat anti social at the time, Port Credit High School had its moments.

I've always been a "motorhead".

The parking lot was a place to hang out at noon after bolting down the paper bag sandwiches most of us carried. The cafeteria food was inedible. Port Credit took in a pretty large area, and some kids had several miles to get there. Some of the area was very affluent, but we had all types.

Bicycles were abandoned around age 12, unlike today. A bicycle was "for kids". Also, no-one would be seen dead having their mothers drop them off like they do now. Most walked, but cars were popular, particularly with the boys and a lot had them. No one cared about the environment, either.

The car lot had quite a variety, and we young "motorheads" used to hang around discussing them. Laying rubber was a popular attention seeking device with girls, or so some thought. I was sidelined here, as a 1927 Model T Ford was not the ideal tool for laying rubber. Neither was my mother's Austin A-40 which I was sometimes allowed to use.

It was guys like my friend Clint, who really excelled at this sort of thing, using his father's 57 Oldsmobile Super 88 which he snuck out of the garage when his dad was away on business. The huge air-cleaner announced in bold writing that underneath was an Oldsmobile Super Skyrocket engine, which was very impressive. It was fitted with a J-pack- three two barrel carburetors. Clint would floor the car in neutral, and then pop it in to "drive". All hell would break loose, and lots of rubber would be laid in front of the school. Hydromatics were very tough transmissions. It didn't break.

There were two Model T's, Clint's brother's 17, and my roadster which showed up from time to time. There were one or two model A's, one of which belonged to the Physics teacher. One rich kid's father, who was also a car nut, gave his son an immaculate XK-120 Jaguar roadster on his birthday, dark blue with red leather seats. That was my favorite parking lot car. There were a few MG T series, and Triumph TR-2s making up the remainder of the sports car contingent. One girl's mother let her drive a '57 Ford Fairlane 500 hardtop convertible to school once or twice a week. She gained in popularity because she let the boys fool around with the car. You had to start it prior to putting the top down, because so much current was used, that the battery was too flat to start it afterwards. That one got lots of action with booster cables. Also, the top was always raised and lowered several times during the lunch break which didn't help.

Knobby Kayama had a red 53 Buick convertible that he had won in a raffle when only 13, a Roadmaster no less, with a continental kit. Knobby's dad let him drive it to school about once a week, as it was his car after all. The fact that Knobby was only 13 with no license was ignored, and as Knobby's Japanese ancestry and age made him a bit short, his dad attached wooden blocks to the pedals, and Knobby sat on two Toronto telephone books so he could see over the dash. Knobby was very fussy about his car, and wouldn't let any of the rest of us drive it, but we often rode around in it, "cruising the strip" sometimes in the evening. Port Credit's main street, which was maybe three miles in length had an A&W drive-in at each end, and was an ideal place for cruising.

Every night on the strip, a guy by the name of "Toad" Mead sat in his 53 Mercury two door hardtop parked on the sidelines, just "looking cool". He was an old guy, perhaps 25. He arrived there each night about 7:00 and sat there for the duration. He wore a black motorcycle cap with a white peak, and always had the driver's window open and his arm on the sill. The Mercury had lowering blocks, bubble skirts, a continental kit, fluff balls around the windows, and purple "sex lights" on the inside upper corners of the windshield. You were always welcome to sit with Toad in his car which was convenient, as his radio was always tuned to Buffalo's WKBW for the "Hound", who played Rock and Roll, or WWVA, from Wheeling West Virginia. Toad's car length "whip aerial" brought the stations in from across Lake Ontario. Every now and again he would start the car to keep the battery up, and a low rumble would come from his dual exhausts and Hollywood mufflers. I never heard Toad say anything but "hello, boys" and "bye, boys", when we entered and exited his car, and "cool" when he thought someone had said something of interest.

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The Best Prank Ever --- by John Somerset (1960)

The Fire of 18 October 1956 did little to change what was the true essence of Port Credit High School: the immense pride of being part of something truly very special and the engaging spirit that lived in the hearts of those who claimed the school as their own.

What did change, regretfully, was the appearance of the building. The board had the once-enchanting, neo-gothic, Credit Valley Stone face of the school torn from its body. In its place they constructed an industrial-like façade of steel, glass and other uninspiring materials - with no provision for a front entrance, or even a mounted bronze statue of Burt Lucas's dog that, after all, raised the early-morning alarm, saving the building from total destruction.

Yes, we then had a school with no apparent main entranceway and an uninspiring, featureless face. Instead students, staff and visitors were directed to a side entrance off the parking lot. In the "foyer", located by the custodian's work areas, numerous steel garbage cans stood sentry, rather like a silent welcoming committee.

Yet, in spite of these shortcomings, the spirit rose bravely among the charred thorns: we put the fire behind us and carried on with renewed purpose. After all, schools are much more than mere bricks and mortar. We convinced ourselves that glamour mattered little, if at all.

We had, for example, a greatly anticipated event each spring: the graduating classes versus the teachers in a game of baseball. Witnessing the human side of the teachers is always a delight for students. The whole school turned out to watch the event and cheer for both sides. The focus was entirely centered on the game of baseball. Classrooms and offices emptied, leaving the school, and in particular, the inner sanctum unattended. There would be no witnesses to what would happen next, as someone saw even the cat at the game. Yes, someone had let the cat out.

The next day around lunchtime, there were wisps of hush-hush rumors that the decorum demanded by the office was about to take a major hit, so to speak. Anticipation grew throughout the especially long afternoon.

The 3:15 bell sounded - and still nothing had happened. "All stand for the National Anthem", a crackled voice commanded over the loud speakers in each classroom. We stood at attention by our desks, well... after a fashion that is. We heard the needle feeling its way along the grooves of the long-play orchestral recording toward the first cut.

While certain people held their breath, anticipating the explosion, the staff and most of the students were innocently and totally oblivious. It happened precisely as planned: the opening vocal bars of Elvis Presley's, Hound Dog, blared over the speaker system at full volume - before we heard the needle loudly scraping its way across the lacquered disc. Then... incredulous silence, while the words and music resonated in our heads.

The awesome peace was quickly broken by howls of laughter. A roar resonated throughout the school. The teacher in my classroom, at first looking aghast, began stomping his feet and clapping his hands with utter disbelief then astonished wonder reflected in his reddening face. As we spilled into the halls, laughing and joyfully slapping backs, the question was on everyone's lips: Who did this incredible thing?

To answer the question, nothing ever happened. Some clever acts of daring are best left alone to dwell in the mists of time among our fondest of memories. As far as I know, there was no investigation. As it should be, sleeping dogs where left undisturbed.

It seems that someone stole into the school office while everyone else was engrossed in the baseball game. This unnamed person found the turntable and carefully replaced the recording of God Save the Queen with another showing a rather unobtrusive label. Who knows, but the mysterious person probably joined the crowd at the baseball game, doing his best to stifle a bursting grin that threatened to call attention to his excited self. I cannot imagine how he was able to control his rising mirth behind nothing more than a smile.

In every high school there is always a small group of what were known as the tough guys. Predominantly dressed in black, believing that "black is a man's color", they took positions, mostly on the fringes of formal school activities, doing only what was deemed to be cool in a manner after Johnny Cash.

One of the more-prominent members of this group was a student named Morris Lash. Now I am not pointing fingers necessarily. After all, time has brought forth a growing and dubious group of pretenders with varying claims - all of them spurious, in my considered opinion.

I have not seen or heard of Morris Lash in over forty years, but if I were to come across him, I would treat him to a beer of his choice and shake his hand, a belated, but sincere gesture of appreciation for planting the seeds of a remarkable memory of the best prank ever.