Tales of the unexpected

In the last Making History article (Hand Made History - a progress report, October 2008), I wrote about our project to gather oral histories from around New Zealand, and create a digital archive of first-person accounts of physiotherapy practice.  Thus far, we have completed 28 “interviews” and amassed more than 40 hours of digital audio.  It is a great privilege to be able to hear first hand how our profession has developed, and explore some of the events that have shaped our unique professional identity. 

Some of the stories we have heard are legendary (like Rob McKenzie’s account of finding his hyperextended patient, and Kaltenborn’s meeting with Paris, Maitland and Grieve).  In many cases, we have recorded these stories for the first time, and you will be able to hear them straight from the horse’s mouth – so to speak – when the site goes live.

Among the heart-warming stories of adventure and success, we have also come across a number of “tales of the unexpected”.  Not the sort to get anyone struck off, you understand (although there have been those stories too), but stories that make you wonder how on earth people had the nerve to do what they did.  Some of the most strident examples come from – wouldn’t you know it – people’s accounts of their student days.

Joan Walker, for example, told us a story of Enid Gotts, one of the Dunedin School’s most revered and respected principals.  Miss Gotts ruled the school with authoritarian discipline.  Nails were inspected, skirt lengths were checked and first names were forbidden.  It is hard to imagine, given what we know of her, what she would have thought of being pushed into the school pool, fully clothed, one day.  Worse still, how she would have reacted to being pushed into a locker in the men’s changing rooms and locked in for several hours while people came in to hear her beating on the door to get out.  No-one knows who let her out (maybe someone reading this can enlighten us?), but peerless in her professionalism, she ignored the incidents, thus removing the oxygen of publicity from the perpetrators. 

Joan also told us of being able to listen to lectures from under the stairs when she (all too frequently) came late to class.  Attendance in those days was never optional, and tardy students had to be creative to avoid punishment.  The tiered theatre in Dunedin had windows at floor level (see photo), and one of these was often left open for late-comers.  By climbing across the roof of some of the college buildings, one could enter the lecture theatre under the stairs unnoticed.  From here, one could see the board and hear the speaker.  This confused many a lecturer who, with a clear idea of who had attended class, would challenge absent students only to find that the student had perfect recall of what had gone on.  How many of you, I wonder, have heard an electrotherapy lecture or a remedial gymnastics class from between the rows of bench seats?

Dunedin School lecture theatre showing tiered seating under which late students would hide

Gay Ross told us of being pushed into one of the tall cane baskets that stood in the corner of the room.  Searching for a clean uniform one day, Gay leant over the side of one of the baskets before the start of class only to be up-ended, locked inside, and forced to listen to the whole lecture sitting among the laundry. 

Rob McKenzie’s year was equally mischievous.  In the men’s changing room were lockers and a single toilet set in the middle of the room.  The toilet had no ceiling and it was a fiendishly cunning plan to go in, lock the door, and climb out over the top - leaving those outside bemused and frustrated.  On one occasion, Rob, desperate for the toilet, found the door locked.  Knowing that one of the other boys had been in just before, he called to him but got no reply.  Infuriated, Rob tossed a chair over the cubicle wall in the hope of extricating the ignorant sitter.  Unfortunately, no one was inside and Rob only succeeded in smashing the toilet bowl into pieces.  Suffice to say, Enid Gotts was not happy, and although Rob was never charged for the repairs, the act was never repeated.

Mischievousness is part of every student’s experience (or it should be if they’re doing it right!.)  But as a lecturer myself, I have been left open-mouthed, at times, by some of the antics of past physiotherapy students.  I just can’t imagine locking one of today’s school principals in the changing rooms for the day, never mind throwing them in the pool.  How times have changed.  If you enjoy listening to stories of physiotherapy’s past, be sure to keep an eye out for future Making History pieces, where we’ll be announcing the release of some of the audio files.

Finally, having spoken so much about the Dunedin School in this piece, I would like to remind people that 2013 also marks the school’s centenary.  Plans are afoot for a celebration of the school’s achievements, and you will be hearing more about this in the coming months. 

David Nicholls