Richard Bunbury Stories
Here are stories and tributes to Richard. The videos were shot at our home in about 2006, and many of the comments that follow are from his celebration of life. They came about when Elaine, Richard’s mother thought he and I would have a lot in common, and that I would enjoy his stories. It never was a right idea to ignore an Elaine suggestion.
Here are four stories Richard shared
- His father’s stories in the war
- Camaraderie at a private school
- From teaching to law
- Law school
Once you’ve started the video , to choose from the playlist, click on the the lines at the top of the viewer.
I think Mr. Bunbury saved my life. I came into his Grade 4 class at YHS from public school where I had struggled with pretty much every aspect of school. I was a smart kid and had been designated as ‘gifted’, but also struggled with big emotions that I didn’t know how to manage and was definitely not the most well-behaved student.
I wrote this ongoing story called “the Old Swamp” in his class. I would glue together all the pages of my journal if I made a mistake with my writing and I still have some of those notebooks that are full of thick glued together pages and there’s nothing in there about pages being glued, just positive comments on my writing and enthusiasm for my storytelling. I think he knew I struggled with perfectionism and that the page gluing was a sign of me struggling.
He used to put a meter stick across his shoulders and drape his arms over it. I remember the day it broke with a loud snap and we all laughed, including him. He made it okay to make mistakes.
I also remember being sent out of the room for being disruptive and responding with some less then elegant behaviours but I never once remember him making me feel like I was a bad kid.
We did a play called the Two Banana Trees. I’m pretty sure he wrote it. We all had parts, every kid, but mine was the first line of the play. I still remember it. “Oh great Keshla, father of a thousand sons and ten thousand daughters, prince of the universe….”. On the day of the play when the curtains opened I got horrible stage fright and started crying in front of the whole school. The curtains were closed and I remember someone talking to me warmly and assuring me I could do it and then the curtains opened and I did it. Pretty sure that was him.
I also had a nickname – I was “Gym” because my middle initials were PE.
I say he saved my life because I think if I’d gone one more year feeling like teachers didn’t like me I’m not sure I would have been successful in school. That was what he did. He *liked* me. Or at least he made me feel like he did, even on days when I sure wasn’t acting very likeable. He taught me lots of stuff but mostly he taught me that it was possible for me to be myself in a classroom and be seen, heard, and valued.
I wrote to him several years ago to thank him and he replied to me. I think I still have that letter somewhere. He said he remembered me and suggested we meet up for coffee. I didn’t follow through, because I was scared he wouldn’t live up to my memories of him. He was, and still is, such a hero in my mind.
I’m currently working on a grad. diploma in Inclusive Education. I Googled him to see if maybe I could track him down and go for that coffee and find out what his magic was, exactly, for staying patient and kind and making kids feel heard and seen and loved even when they were hiding in their lockers (I did that once.). I’m devastated to hear he’s been gone for 10 years and I never knew.
I haven’t watched the videos yet, but I will. I am so incredibly grateful that they exist.
I am a cousin from South Africa remember Richard when in Navy and when I was in Airforce his dad dropped me off at gate to start basic training.
I have attached a poem Richard wrote which his wife, Anne, has just sent me. The poem is about the Battle of Sidi Rezegh, which was the Battle in World War II in the North African desert when his Dad, (also Richard) and my brother, who were fighting with the South African forces, were taken prisoners of war by the Germans under General Rommel.
After the War, my husband, Richard and my brother, after a game of golf on a Saturday would come home and after supperm talk about the War and their experiences as P.O.W.’s .
Young Richard was always there as a small boy, listening to these stories.
This poem he wrote must be his memory of those stories he heard.
The Battle of Sidi Rezegh was on 23rd November, 1941.
Richard’s Poem
Richard’s poem, “The Tomb of Sidi Rezegh”, expresses the essence of the affect of War on a soldier, being in the midst of a battle. Richard captures the deep feelings and
relates those feelings his Dad had in his everyday experiences, after the war is over, to what happened on that day, on 23rd November, 1941. Everyday experiences like eating breakfast, shaving playing a game of rugby, the haunting memories are always there at the back of his mind,
I remember my husband Richard, and my brother, talking about that day. They were dispatch riders in the Signal brigade and their duty was to take messages between the battlefield and the
Headquarters. The South African and Australian forces were losing the battle, being surrounded by the superior numbers of the Germans, under General Rommel. Soldiers were being rounded up and taken prisoner. Being a dispatch rider, Richard said he was only armed with a rifle and that when he saw one of their own armoured cars,driving by, he thought he would try and jump on it, as it would give him more protection from all the artillery fire. He was just about to do so, when the armoured car blew up, killing those on board. It had a direct hit with a shell. He was thrown across the dessert but was unharmed. He ran back to the trench and he said he ducked down, but bullets were flying around and seemed to be aimed at him so
he put his steel helmet on his forefinger and held it above the slit- trench and found that bullets were, in fact, being aimed directly at him. The next moment he looked up and
saw an enemy tank, with the driver pointing a gun at him and yelling at him in German, to get up and put his hands above his head. Which he did, and was then marched with all the
other prisoners across the desert for 3 days, without much food and little water, to a port where they were put on an Italian ship to be P.O.W.’s in Italy. The ship was torpedoed off
the coast of Greece and, once again, he had a miraculous escape. They were on the deck for exercise when ordered to return to the two holds where they had been put. He was about to go down No 1 Hold when his friend called him back and said they were in No 2 Hold. He re-traced his steps and went down and shortly thereafter the ship took a direct hit from a torpedo in
No 1 Hold and all the men in there were killed ! His second narrow escape Something good happened to him those days !
Yesterday, being Remembrance Day, those memories of Richard’s stories are in my mind, as I read the poem Young Richard wrote. Wars are a waste and we must make sure there are no more wars; and that politicians use diplomacy and negotiation and that the people use their power to peacefully protest, to settle their differences, Our grandchildren and great-grandchildren must not have to go to war. That is the reason I believe in “Beyond War.” Best wishes Elaine
My very first memory is of my uncle Little Richard, the family’s “older brother”. It was Halloween and I was two years old, sitting next to my own older brother in front of an emptied pillowcase of candy on the kitchen table, rapt in pure joy. At that moment, life was pretty good. So my uncle, being the experienced older brother who grew up with 2 younger sisters, couldn’t let an opportunity like this pass by. Not on Halloween. Sure we weren’t his younger brothers but we were his younger sister’s kids and he had a reputation to maintain. He had kids to tease, even if he was 25. So he did what all older brothers do when they see younger siblings, nephews, nieces, having too much fun. With his expert cunning and precision he turned a moment of absolute joy into a moment of absolute horror. He barged through our back door wearing a monster mask yelling and screaming, being scary enough to shake a grown man, and at that moment in my life, the love and safety my parents had worked so hard to create for me and my brother was gone and hell and mayhem was loosed upon our reality destroying our joy of chocolate and licorice and jellybeans quick and finite. I’m not sure a two year old has ever screamed so loudly, my own two-year-old Abigail might have rivaled it when I took her on the Pirates Of the Caribbean ride in Disneyland, she’s a lot like her Dad, but the comparisons end there. That memory is still so vivid. Vivid enough to amuse me to this day. And as the victim of that prank, I actually look back and envy his skill in terrorizing the unsuspecting, the innocent. That’s my Little Richard, a grown man with a monster mask. And I don’t think he ever took that monster mask off. And with that mask he could evoke the greatest reactions from anyone, and I’m not talking about emotions of terror, even though he was capable of that; I’m talking about thoughts and ideas of politics, philosophy, religion, and literature. He was a man of intellect and intellectual inspiration. He challenged me to think beyond the standard and cliché. He was a man of convictions and he fought for those convictions even if it was to his own detriment. He was a man to admire, fear, befriend, and love.
I’m mad at Richard for leaving Canada and going back to South Africa. He really was Canadian at heart and I can’t help but think we missed so many experiences together. I wasn’t mad then because I naively thought there’d always be time. We’d catch up later. He’d visit, I’d visit, never realizing that the last visit would be our last visit. I should have learned that lesson when my mom passed. I think it’s a mercy that I didn’t. The last time I spoke to Richard we had a wonderful discussion, as we usually did. He seemed so open. For the first time in my life I saw him with his guard down. I can understand that. One of the many things Richard and I have shared is a prolonged period of poor health. I know how lonely that can be. I know how that can knock your guard down and throw it out. Leave you exposed and vulnerable. I never knew how ill he was and again, maybe that was a mercy too. I missed his deteriorating health and I’m happy I did. All I have are memories of him as a healthy force. I’m really going to miss him, our talks of Mandela, John Lennon, Vladimir Lenin, Robert Blake, and Bob Marley. His scrunchy face. He bought me my first comic book. He was Senben’s Master. He had that awesome jeep. He laughed with everything he had. He didn’t hold back. Forget that. He wasn’t politically correct which was somehow coming from him politically correct. He went through life without ever using a comb or brush. Once. He could connect with so many different people on so many different levels. He was diverse. There was a lot to love, and I loved him. I loved Little Richard because he was more than my uncle. He was my friend. He was my teacher. He was my mom’s brother. He was Little Richard.