from phhsalumni.org by Jim (Money) Richards THE OLD HIGH SCHOOL AND THE NEW HIGH SCHOOL
The chief thing I remember about the old High School was the smell --- the
pungent, penetrating scent of all that varnished, scrubbed and waxed woodwork.
Wooden floors, wooden staircases, wooden banisters, wooden doors, desks,
tables, chairs --- maple, walnut, oak, pine, all glowing golden and umber, all
either dusty or oily, all creaking, squeaking, echoing, all suffusing the
atmosphere with their own quietly aging aromas, while playing back to the
appreciative nose the absorption of generations of dropped basketball socks,
cheap hair spray, musty books, bag lunches, old paint and the fine, invisible
dust of ages sifting down from the attic.
Miss Hammond, the French
teacher, had the best room in the house, three flights up, large and airy,
with dormer windows above the tree tops. She used to sit on the edge of her
desk swinging one shapely gam while explaining most fetchingly the difference
between, "Ooo, j'ai chaud!" and "Ooo, je suis chaud!"
P.J. Bigelow was
the principal. Little Napoleon, we called him. A scowling, humourless,
loud-voiced man apparently disliked by the entire student body as far as I
could make out. He fancied himself a parade ground martinet and liked nothing
better than to bark complicated marching orders at "his" cadet corps, then
berate us for our clumsiness and slovenly appearance.
Unlike Keith
Rose, the P.T. and Math teacher, who, without pads or helmet, would play the
part of opposition quarterback in practice with the senior football team,
undergoing many an enthusiastic sacking that would have sent a lesser man
whimpering off the field. I remember a particularly rowdy basketball trip with
much friskiness going on in the back of the bus; Keith Rose stood up, reeled
down the aisle and insinuated his grinning, over-coated, Homburg-hatted bulk
into the middle of the crowd on the back seat, thereby effectively chaperoning
the depravity and probably saving several coeds their tenuous virtue, at least
temporarily.
And John Hill, English teacher, a quiet, mild-mannered
hero, with a dry wit and a collection of shapeless, tweedy sports jackets with
leather elbows. My clearest remembrances of Mr. Hill cover the month or so he
came into class carrying a weighty edition of "Mein Kampf" under his arm. As
the bookmark worked its way slowly from the front cover toward the back, I got
the impression that we were increasingly viewed as his personal kampf, his
destiny, his burden, his honourable toil.
John Hill was
Editor-In-Charge of the school yearbook and also produced various plays for
the school drama society. I remember on one occasion he detailed me to build
and paint some scenery. I said fine, but it would go much quicker if I could
cut the wood in my father's workshop. Without batting an eye, he handed me
the keys to his fire-breathing Pontiac coupe and told me to find a couple of
volunteers to help load and carry. "And if you put so much as a scratch on
that car, Money, don't bother coming back."
We assembled the scenery
pieces in the attic, across from Miss Hammond's room and right over Fraser
Hogle's home room. Now there was another unpopular teacher, rotund and
pompous, with a peculiar rolling gait that prompted many an unflattering
speculation having to do with possible digestive accidents. Fraser Hogle
taught Latin, possibly the most agonizingly boring subject ever invented
(although in later life I did come to appreciate its fountainhead origins of
several well-known contemporary languages).
On this particular
occasion, the two volunteers and I were working in the attic, right above the
Latin room, into which our Grade Ten class was due to move at ten o'clock. We
hatched our plot and quietly assembled our devices. After the bells died down,
we positioned ourselves directly over the Latin room, waited exactly five
minutes and then cut loose with all we had. We hammered, banged and sawed; we
dropped buckets of nails, kicked over piles of 2x4s; I even went through a
floorboard with a sledgehammer. We were just getting thoroughly into the swing
of things --- one of the guys was climbing a stepladder with a load of
ballistically-destined scrap lumber --- when the attic door burst open and in
staggered Bob Ough, laughing so hard he could hardly stand up. "What the
HELL's going on?" We explained and asked if they could hear it down below.
"Hear it?" he gasped, "It stopped poor old Fraser dead in his tracks, in
mid-waddle, in mid-sentence. We couldn't hear him any more. It was deafening.
The ceiling lights were bouncing around on their chains; there was plaster
dust coming down over everything. It was wonderful!"
We moved to the
new High School in late 1955, I guess it was. I remember because I got detailed
by Mr. Hill to do the yearbook cover that year. "Money, I think you should do
something that looks like a blueprint of the new school." So I went up there
to that muddy building site, drew a couple of crude sketches and produced an
almost equally-crude cover drawing, embarrassing by today's standards but
acceptable enough in those days before photocopying, when the entire yearbook
was churned out on a Biblical-technology machine called a Gestetner Duplicator.
My memory of moving day, or days, is that we carried practically the
entire school up over the hill to the new building, by hand and on foot. Entire
classes were detailed to carry, say, the whole science lab equipment inventory
or all the art department supplies. We were told strictly to stay on paved
town streets. The route was barked out at assembly by P.J. with pointer and
map, as though sending a battalion on a forced march through dangerous
territory. Obviously, we boys thought this was a load of crap when there was a
much shorter route, up over what was called Monkey Mountain, by way of a
non-paved road. We skipped gleefully across the playing field (sorry P.J.,
"parade ground"), and over the embankment carrying our burdens, squelched and
slithered up the hill, getting thoroughly covered in goo and arrived at the
new school at least fifteen minutes before the girls and the conscientious
objectors. Except P.J. was there to meet us, barking like an angry sea lion.
"ALL YOU PEOPLE WITH MUDDY SHOES --- AN HOUR'S DETENTION TONIGHT!"
For
months, the new school was, to put it mildly, a trial. Nothing was finished,
nothing worked properly. The lights went out; the bells rang uncontrollably;
the lockers weren't installed; the heat didn't work; the gymnasium had no
floor; the clocks went mad, hands spinning dementedly; the fire alarm went off
two or three times a day. But we loved it anyway. Nobody complained. Why not?
Because we had all this space, all this light, all this smell of newness and
the excitement at being the first to christen this virgin ship. It was a great
time and, as the builders gradually ironed out the bugs, it became a great
school in which we began to take much pride and in which we actually seemed to
learn a thing or two.
from phhsalumni.org EFFECTIVE WITH
U.S. NATURALIZATION, MAY 22/2002: OFFICIAL NAME CHANGE FROM James Edward
Money TO James Eagle Richards.
Following PHHS, worked as DJ on CHUC,
Cobourg, then to Bermuda on ZBM Radio, then New York on WRUL. Went into
advertising in NY (Benton & Bowles, J. Walter Thompson), then to London as
commercial director. Then drove overland, London-Capetown, Perth-Sydney,
Australia, where set up own film company, Challenges Accepted, 15 years,
shooting TV commercials all over the world. Many adventures! Took up flying
sailplanes in competitions in Oz. Then back to States in '89 to Lucasfilm. Now
(3 marriages, 2 kids later), freelancing, writing, painting, looking forward to
"dropping out" and living near some mountains/water, building the dream home,
sailing, camping, stoking up lifelong interest in trains and model building,
also traveling the world, etc. Whew.
Obituary James Edward 'Jim'
Richards March 17, 1938 - March 19, 2016
from The Durango
Herald April 14, 2016 Jim was born on March 17, 1938, in Surrey, England,
to Gladys E. and Bertram R. Money. The family moved to London in the early spring
of 1940. One year into WWII, the city was bombed for 57 consecutive nights by
the German Luftwaffe, and on every occurrence the family had to seek safety in
air raid shelters. As soon as he was able, his father moved Gladys and Jim to a
safer location on a farm in the English countryside. After the war, and because
of his father's job as a civil engineer, Jim moved constantly, and by the time
he was ten, he'd attended seven different schools.
When he was twelve,
the family immigrated to Ontario, Canada, where Jim was finally able to have a
more stable life. He learned to drive tractors and was hired by neighboring
farmers to help in the fields. His deep love of trains began from the first
time he heard a locomotive roar past his house. He fished, hunted, and hiked
the woods and thought he was the luckiest kid alive. In high school, he was
drum player for a dance band he assembled, and the group often played at local
gatherings. After graduating from high school, and because of his love of
popular music, he was hired as a disc jockey at the local radio station. But
eventually he wanted to expand his horizons and sought work elsewhere. When an
offer came to work at a radio station in Bermuda, he didn't think twice.
Pulling up stakes, he changed his last name to Richards, and began his new job
as a disc jockey, producer, and writer, focusing on his favorite musical
genre, jazz. He talked his employers into assignments that piqued his
interest, which broadened the scope of his duties. Among other ventures, he
recorded conversations with jet pilots from the local airfield and talked them
into taking him aloft on their training flights. He also finagled trips to
Seattle, Washington, to conduct interviews at the World's Fair. Other
assignments followed, and after experiencing a world much larger and more
varied than Bermuda, he moved to New York City to begin a career in
advertising at Benton & Bowles and J. Walter Thompson. Craving an even more
satisfying and adventurous life, he moved back to England and began
solidifying plans to sail around the world, a dream from an early age.
Deciding to start his sailing odyssey from Sydney, Australia, he purchased a
second-hand Land Rover, outfitted it to withstand the rigors of off-road
travel, joined a caravan of six vehicles, and drove from London to South
Africa – a journey of 6 months. After many fascinating and sometimes harrowing
experiences, he arrived at Cape Town and sailed to Perth on the west coast of
Australia. Next, he drove through the outback, Australia's "Red Center," and
arrived in Sydney covered with dust and ready for his next adventure. Then
Jim's life took an unexpected turn. Instead of sailing around the world as
planned, he started down a different path. At the time of his arrival,
Australian television was transitioning from black and white to color. Due to
the knowledge gained from his experiences in the U.S., he was sought after to
direct commercials using this new technology. Initially he worked for several
advertising agencies but then formed his own company, Challenges Accepted – so
named because he was willing to take on seemingly impossible assignments. In
addition to Australia, his projects took him to Europe, the U.S. (including
Hawaii and Alaska), Canada, England, Southeast Asia, and New Zealand.
Challenges Accepted, which Jim ran for 15 years, became Australia's leading
production house. Eventually he decided to return to the U.S., a place he
loved and considered to be his true home, working in New York City and Los
Angeles. Fulfilling yet another dream, he obtained his U.S. citizenship.
After 25 years as a director, creating over 1,600 commercials and
receiving over 150 awards for his cutting-edge and trend-setting commercials,
Jim decided it was time to retire and to look for a place to spend the rest of
his life. Three years of searching brought no satisfaction until he and his
wife, Jean, drove into Durango one autumn afternoon, and with a mutual sigh of
relief, realized that they had found the perfect spot.
From the age of
ten, Jim had imagined a place where he'd like to live – a mountain home
overlooking a valley and backed by pine trees. With his Challenges Accepted
spirit and enthusiasm, he eventually found that location in Durango's Animas
Valley. For the next ten years, he and Jean landscaped the property and
created the home of their dreams. He built a world-class model railroad in the
basement. In the studio above, he wrote The Road to Narromine about his
experiences flying sailplanes on the edge of the Australian outback. Jim also
wrote "The Grammar Police," a humorous blog where he vented his annoyance and
frustration over the ignorance and misuse of the English language – he hoped
to educate his readers as a side effect.
In addition to all the above,
Jim was a prize-winning model builder; a pastel and pen & ink artist; an avid
reader; a jazz aficionado; a raconteur; an open-water scuba diver; a sailor; a
runner; and a mountain biker. Full of hopes, dreams and plans for the
future, Jim was diagnosed with Stage 4 pancreatic cancer the first week of
2016. On March 19th he passed away in the home he loved, with Jean by his
side. This amazing man will be deeply missed by his many friends and
acquaintances from Colorado and around the world.
He is survived by his
wife, Jean Richards of Durango; his son, Linn (Kat) Money of Sydney,
Australia; his daughter, Christine (Robin) Miller of Ontario, Canada; and
granddaughter Madeleine Miller.
There will be a celebration of Jim's
life in the near future, when the trees in the Animas Valley are bursting with
bright new foliage, a sight that brought joy to his heart.