Hillcrest

Hillcrest School is located in Moncton, New Brunswick. (Credit: Judson Doncaster)

When I was younger, my school days always began the same way. My dad and I set out at 8:10 a.m. He locked the door behind us with my blue Mountain Equipment Co-op backpack slung over his shoulder. He carried my bag every day, even though he would be the first one to tell me I should carry it myself.  

We walk along the curb through the tree-lined streets of what is affectionately known as the Old West End of Moncton, New Brunswick. He walked quickly, and I had to consciously speed up to keep pace. I endlessly pester him about the new upgrades he made to his base in Clash of Clans. Almost every house we pass has a yard and a beat-up basketball hoop with an abused backboard out front.  

Our morning walks ended at Hillcrest, the neighbourhood Kindergarten to Grade 8 school. Although it never seemed like a big deal back then, these walks, this school, and afternoons spent on the playing field were. 

I’ve been thinking about Hillcrest and those walks since I came home from university and passed the school earlier this year, and I could see it was a shell of its former self.

The L on the yellow and black sign had fallen off, along with the wooden eagle. The grass was mangy and unkept, and the playground was in disrepair. Signs were warning that the space is not for the public and that playing there is prohibited.  

The ‘Home of the Eagles,’ which opened in 1954, is no longer a neighbourhood school, but a new “alternate learning site” for students who are bused in. I don’t know much about what goes on there, but I do know the Old West End has lost more than a school. 

Most of my friends do not have anything positive to say about our hometown, Moncton. They either can’t wait to get out of the city or don’t look forward to coming back. I don't share their sentiments. I have so many fond memories, and get excited when I come home and visit.  

Most of my memories are connected in some way to my neighbourhood, and by extension, my neighbourhood school. This tiny brick school, which was always at risk of closing because there weren’t enough students, was at the centre of my childhood and watching the school slowly fade since I graduated is disheartening. 

My dad, Scott, is a wiry man who hates mediocrity. When you think of a stay-at-home dad, he may not be the person you’re picturing. He woke up every day at 4 a.m. and worked, tying salmon flies until I got up for school. He brought me my Eggo waffles every morning and sat with me on the couch while I watched Adventure Time in my pyjamas.  

My dad is an artist, and like many artists, he is volatile and never boring. No matter what I was interested in as a kid, he cared just as much as I did. Everything from hook shots to Fortnite, if I was into it, he was into it. 

My dad and I, walking hand in hand when I was little. (Submitted by Judson Doncaster)

I remember running to the soccer net we used as a backstop with my aluminum bat in one hand and a baseball in the other. I tossed the ball in front of me and swung as my dad walked behind me with our grocery bag of balls and our gloves. The field and the dirt in front of the net made the perfect batter’s box.  

Throughout my life, every sport I was interested in was learned at the Hillcrest school playground. When I decided I wanted to be a great baseball player, every day for the next two summers, my dad and I would go to the soccer field and hit baseballs. 

Then Basketball became our sport. I had tried it when I was very young and hated it. Then, in Grade 5, I decided I loved it. Daily trips to the playground with my dad to work on layups paid off. I stuck to basketball longer than baseball. My father volunteered and became the head coach of the basketball team.  

In my Grade 8 year, we won the district championship, and to this day, my dad and I jokingly argue about what was most important to the victory, his coaching or my play. I distinctly remember after the win, my mother and I went to pick up my cousin from daycare. As we crossed the bridge on our way, we got a call from my dad, who was blasting “All I Do Is Win,” which is now an anthem in our family. 

Three years after I graduated from Hillcrest, I returned and coached the basketball team for two years. It was a ragtag team with many students who had never played. One of my players wore jeans and winter boots to every game. Another was too nervous to play but wanted to cheer from the bench. 

My younger cousin also played on the team. He was a very solid player on our team, but had next to no basketball experience. He ended up having a great year, but the next year he was forced to go to a new, massive, middle school that put our neighbourhood school, along with two others, out of commission.  

At the mega-school, there were lots of kids with four or five years of basketball experience under their belt, and my cousin didn’t even try out because he didn’t feel like he had a chance to make the team. Small school communities demand participation and actively wrap their arms around new players. 

Researchers have been sounding the alarm in recent years about dramatic decreases in outside play among children. Experts recommend children spend three hours outside every day.

The average time spent playing outside is now about 45 minutes. We know screens are taking over children's attention, but I think more attention should be paid to the loss of neighbourhood schools and their playgrounds. Public outdoor spaces are essential to outdoor play.

Immediately after restrictions were lifted after COVID-19, two of my friends and I were so relieved to be out of the house that we spent every day for a week at the Hillcrest field. We would go from playing basketball on the chain-link nets to playing football with my friend’s New England Patriots ball.

We met many people whom I would get to know much better when I reached high school. It was a moment in time when Hillcrest was there when we needed it most. 

The small school experience is like no other. My dad and I walked to school together every day for eight years. That's about 1,500 mornings. It didn’t matter if it was an absolute blizzard or blisteringly hot; we would walk. Even after I could easily walk to and from school on my own, we continued to walk together. 

Our walks in the winter are some of my most vivid memories. Our walk to Hillcrest was uphill and against the wind. On freezing days, we would walk with our backs to where we were going. Sometimes my dad would walk backwards and block the wind so I could walk forwards. 

I have always liked things calm. When I was in Grade 8, our class was left alone at lunch time. A classmate made a habit of grabbing utensils from unsuspecting students, breaking them in half before cackling in celebration. I hate being put on trial for crimes I didn’t commit, so I asked if I could instead walk home for lunch.  

This was something that wasn't allowed at my school, but since every teacher knew me very well and knew I lived just down the street, they allowed it. I would walk home, and my dad would make me a grilled cheese, and we would talk about the game plan for the day's basketball game. 

My Dad and I walked together to a school where teachers knew us and where we felt welcomed, and where we could easily be part of the school community. If someday I become a teacher or a dad, I hope there is a Hillcrest on the road ahead. 

(Submitted by Judson Doncaster)