The teacher of a one-room school had to be versatile. There might be half a dozen or more children in one grade, only one or two in another; if some children had repeated or skipped a grade there might be no children in a particular class. All the classes and recitations had to be accommodated within a small space. The teacher not only needed to instruct in the basic learning skills but was expected to present something that resembled an 'art' class several times per month. Here the stash of Grade Teacher magazines came into play.
'Art class' usually consisted of a seasonal drawing traced from the magazine pages and handed out to all along with colored pencils and crayons. The magazine example was tacked up in full view and the idea was to replicate it. Originality wasn't encouraged. I learned this in 4th grade when the Friday afternoon subject was a basket filled with flowers. The example was a blue basket. I was familiar with the vintage baskets, homely brown, in use in my grandfather's house. That is how I colored my basket. When she collected the pictures which would be pinned to the bulletin board, Mrs, Disorda held my masterpiece at arm's length and scolded, 'Who would want an old brown basket? Couldn't you see that it was blue?'
During Mrs. Gray's tenure Mrs. Harriet Cushman came to teach art. The project I remember best was more 'craft' than art—we were earlier instructed to bring a small bowl from home. We then happily and messily tore strips of newspaper, dunked them in a basin of sloppy paste and formed the strips in layers around our bowls. These objects were set aside to dry until the next session when the hardened shells were gently tapped loose. I was pleased to see that my papier mache bowl was well shaped and sat firmly on its bottom. I blended a custom color from the poster paints, mixing brown and orange to create terra cotta. I embellished the painted bowl with a band of white surmounted by free-hand cat faces. I huffed to Mrs Gray when I discovered that several people 'copied' [clumsily I thought] my choice of color and decoration. She listened patiently, acknowledged my frustration and quietly replied, 'When someone copies what you've done, try to consider it a compliment. It means they like your work.' The little bowl sat on my bedroom shelf for a long time holding a collection of small oddments.
Mrs. Fairie Tyler Atwood taught music in the local schools for several years. She was a lovely young woman, slender with strawberry-blonde hair. I was familiar with her as she sometimes played the pipe organ at church or performed vocal solos. She also gave private piano instruction; Mother had taught me to read music and encouraged me through the first book of lessons before deciding I would benefit from further study with Mrs. Atwood. I looked forward to the afternoons when she would arrive at the Young School and yet I have little memory of her presentations. The most enjoyable times were when she was leading us through The Virginia Reel. Having explained something of the history of this frolicsome dance, she lined us up in facing rows to learn the steps while she played a lively tune on the violin.
Book Mobile
A wikipedia article states that bookmobiles were at the height of their popularity in mid-20th century.
The bookmobile that turned up several times per year in the driveway at Young School was a van fitted with shelves. It was driven by Miss Ball, a plain-faced woman with an engagingly toothy smile. She dressed for whatever she might encounter in the way of muddy or rutted dirt roads, wearing a sensible plain skirt or trousers, a tweed topcoat, with a red beret confining her short greying hair.
After making sure that our shoes were relatively free of mud we were allowed by grades into the tight space of the van. I think there was a limit on how many books each student could select. I loved to read, was happily working my way through the selections in the children's room of the town library. I chose books considered above my grade level and hoped that others would be selecting books that I would enjoy.
The classroom rule was that if assigned work was finished before the next class was called to recite or hand in papers, we could go to the bookshelves and choose a book. There was a sparse collection of books owned by the school and these were always available. By 4th grade I had read them several times over so was glad of additions from the book mobile. I remember a book of Greek and Roman Myths, several volumes of fairy tales suitable for inducing nightmares; a favorite was the story of a family who converted a one-room schoolhouse into a family dwelling.
Strangely, Mrs. Disorda sometimes scolded me for being 'lost in a book.'
Transitions
I don't recall anticipating the transfer to the Village School for 7th grade with any particular misgivings. The actuality was rather unsettling. After that first year at Young School when I had felt intimidated by discord created by the older boys, I had made my place in the small group setting and school terms meshed with my interests and activities outside of the school year.
I was acquainted from Sunday School with a number of children who were in my 7th and 8th grade classroom, but mere acquaintance didn't lead to automatic inclusion in the cliques that had been years in the making among the village kids. I was then----even as now----a quiet introvert without the striking looks or personality that enable one to burst into a group as a welcome addition. I was clumsily uninterested in athletics although I did later manage to join the squad of cheerleaders who cavorted about at the basketball games held in the old town hall.
During those early weeks in the new to me environment someone tagged me with the epithet 'stuck-up.' I still don't know why that characterization originated or how it gained any traction, but it did somewhat haunt my time at Orwell Village.
My interest in music provided a source of affirmation as I could sing in 'special' groups or duets for the Christmas and Spring concerts.
I played 2nd clarinet in the school band which was presided over by Mr. Richard Oxley. Mr. Oxley served as First Chair Trumpeter in the Vermont Symphony Orchestra and it was clear that our efforts often strained his patience. His personality seemed the epitome of artistic temperament. Repeated efforts at rehearsals to drill rhythm or pitch into the less musical of his band members left him wildly brandishing his baton, groping for a cigarette, running his fingers through already disordered hair. Invariably, on the evening of a school concert he imported two of his accomplished daughters, one with a French horn, the other with an already astonishing prowess as a trumpeter.
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