My latest in the Christian Courier.
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As we rattle and rush across the icy surface of Lake Simcoe I look out the porthole window of the Bombardier R12, watching the snowy world blow by. It’s like being transported in a school bus, really—the same dull roar and smell of exhaust and uncomfortable seats—except with dual tracks and skis in place of wheels. It’s an early morning in February and we are heading toward a group of fishing huts where we will spend part of the day. I’m twelve years old, and so excited to be going ice fishing for the first time.
My classmates in Mr. Oldenziel’s grade six class are to have a morning of sex education. My parents have opted to send me instead on a classic Canadian outing with a friend and his dad; the latter is a hunting and fishing columnist for the Toronto Star. It was sex ed or ice fishing and I’m glad to be heading out on the lake.
The class will probably just be a bunch of science, anyway—how men and women’s parts work together, and how babies grow. Nothing about the stuff that gets us boys guffawing, even if I’m not exactly sure why.
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