School Days; A Memoir; Final Installment

Part One; Part Two; Part Three

Sharon; Senior Picture, 1962

Looking Back; School Days

The Town of Orwell never provided a four year high school. There were two years offered when I entered the 9^th grade in the 1958-'59 school year. Mr. John Kelly, the school principal, taught all the classes. There was no real grade division in the subjects; one year world history would be taught, the next year civics. The math class during my 9^th [and only] year there was Algebra I, and my math comprehension went into a permanent decline.

Students who were following the 'college course' expecting to continue education after high school graduation or chose instead a 'commercial course' had to travel out of town to one of the area 4 year high schools. My mother, Beulah Lewis Desjadon, had graduated from Brandon High School as Salutatorian and went from there to the two year teachers' training course then offered at Castleton Normal School [later Castleton College.] It was her hope and expectation that I would also prepare for a teaching career. By this time I had misgivings as to my suitability for teaching, but the college prep course offered the best options.

In earlier decades young people studying out of town had to board within walking distance of the high school of their choice, an added expense for parents. By the late 1950's and early 1960's the option was to find a ride to Brandon with an older student whose family had provided their recently licensed offspring with a car, or as happened for my sister and me, the opportunity to wait on the corner of Young RD and Rte 73 for a teacher who taught in the Brandon Elementary School.

In Brandon we were let out at the foot of the hill to trudge, book bags slapping at our hips, up the street to the three story brick building which was little changed since my Mother's school days.

The adjustment required for this transition wasn't as surprising as the earlier one although there was now the challenge of a different instructor for each class, bells ringing to signal the ending of a session, the march up and down stairs to the next classroom. Student traffic was marshaled in one direction: one's next scheduled class might be in the adjoining room, but to avoid traffic jams one merged with the throng thumping through halls and crowded staircases wheeling off when the designated room came in sight.

I was again in band—a marching band this time—and in chorus. My best friend from home, Linda, was there and I made casual friends among some of the other quiet girls, most of whom had come in from the outlying smaller towns.

The schedule was grueling; we had to be at the corner to catch our ride at 7:30, arriving home after 4 p.m. Supper, homework, bedtime and trying to fall asleep before midnight in preparation for doing it 5 days per week.

In 1961 Brandon High School joined the newly created Otter Valley Union District; Orwell assigned its students to Fair Haven Union High School. My senior year was spent there, my 4^th school although I had never moved from home.

I was weary of school. The past two years of high school with the early morning commute, the long hours, had worn me down physically. I had ordered a few college catalogs, although I now recognized that college tuition would place a heavy strain on my parents. My pitiful scores in Algebra I and Plane Geometry had kept me from the Honor Roll so in spite of my high scores in subjects that required proficiency in reading and writing I was no candidate for a scholarship. I had also realized that I was not teacher material. I leaned toward the idea of becoming a librarian, but was surprised to learn that unlike the women who had served in that position in our small towns, to be considered for the job at any paying level required a college degree.

So, I was without plans for any scholastic future.

When I signed up for senior classes at Fair Haven I found I already had finished all the requirements to graduate there other than English IV. A schedule was made up for me: English IV; Latin II; Home Ec; Personal Typing, Speed Reading; Geography. Several of these classes were mainly populated by Juniors and Sophomores. The young man I would later marry sat in Geography class, as did my younger sister.

Fair Haven is a border town as are several of the towns in the union district. Many of the area students' grandparents and parents were Welsh, a few were Polish, families who had come to the US to work in the slate and marble quarries. It was a more 'blue collar' background with friendships and associations more recently formed. I knew most of the students on the high school bus, made connections with others who likewise were bussed in from surrounding towns.

I wasn't unhappy there but it felt like a rather plodding final year.

A few incidents stand out in memory. One happened as a result of English IV. 

The teacher, Mrs. Margaret Onion, treated us [we were told] as we could expect to be treated if we went on to college. She was formidable! We read Beowulf, Canterbury Tales, Macbeth. We also took on Pygmalion which had been popularized as My Fair Lady.

Pygmalion was read aloud in class with the parts assigned on the spot. Mrs Onion called on me to read the part of the waifish and inelegant Eliza Doolittle.

I was horrified, the 'new girl' in class! After a moment of near panic I decided that if I must be Eliza I would do it with flair! I still have a recalled sense of satisfaction that I, the quiet little mouse, portrayed Eliza in a way that caught the attention of both teacher and classmates. As class dispersed at the sound of the bell, a girl I knew only by name approached me offering an invitation to join the Drama Club.

After school 'extra activities' would have meant catching the 'late bus' home. It would have meant endless rehearsal time. It would have meant eventual public performances something I couldn't have faced at that time.

I didn't volunteer to be a pianist for the chorus group rehearsals; a good friend from Orwell suggested it when the music instructor rose from the piano stating in frustration that she couldn't both direct effectively and play accompaniments. I was excused from other classes on music days to pound out tenor or alto parts for a learning session. I took home music scores so I could learn the more difficult piano accompaniments. I prayed for the good health of the girl who was the usual pianist for school concerts.

I graduated, not with honors due to my lack of proficiency in math, but placed respectably in the top third of the group.

I worked a summer job as I had since I was 16. Another job in a small local business saw me through the winter and spring. My Mother warned that I needed further education, 'something to fall back on' as she put it. Academically, in spite of my aversion to math, I was qualified to attend college. In terms of physical stamina and emotional maturity and discernment I suspect I would have been adrift in the college environment of the 1960's.

The subject background and the study habits I formed during elementary and high school have served me well. I am still often 'lost in a book' or in research of those subjects that interest me.

I'm still at my best and most comfortable in a small group of friends, family and acquaintances who enjoy the sharing of ideas, interests and knowledge.

School Days; A Memoir, Part Three

Part One 

Part Two

Photo credit, Christy Alger

Young School, 1954-1955 School Year

Mrs. Arlene Gray, teacher

I am the 2nd child from left in back row, my sister Christy is the 3rd.

Sharon, 5th grade

Looking Back; School Days,

Part Three

Visiting Teachers

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 4^th 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 4^th 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 7^th 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 7^th and 8^th 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 2^nd 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.  

Sharon, 7th grade

School Days; Part Two

Blogger displays the newest post on top, so if you've not read Part One of this saga, here is the link.

School Days, Part One 

Photo from family collection, early 1920's.

'Billy' with schoolmate Rita Fortier

'Billy' and his younger sister, my mother, both attended Young School.

Looking Back; School Days

Part Two

Recess and Recreation

School opened at 8 A.M. with a break after about two hours for morning recess. Unless the weather was truly horrid this was the time to rush outdoors, shout, gallop about, take turns on the swing set; if we needed a drink of water or to visit the privy, this was the opportunity After 15 or so minutes teacher came out to the front steps and rang a hand bell to summon us inside. The hour and a half before noon was devoted to arithmetic classes. The upper grade students worked problems at the blackboard, there was written work to be completed and passed in. For the primary children there was learning to recognize numbers and eventually to learn simple addition and subtraction sometimes with visual aides to demonstrate the process.

There was a sense of relief when the hands of the big wall clock moved to 12 noon, books could be put away and lunch boxes brought out.

Lunches prepared early in the morning, held in a metal lunch box [or a lard pail or paper bag] were rather spartan. A sandwich curling in a wrapping of waxed paper, an apple or banana, a cookie. Milk, even with chocolate syrup added, tasted 'off' after several hours in a small thermos. I picked at my lunch not realizing there were children in the room whose lunches were so meager they would have enjoyed what I rejected.

With lunch over we had nearly 45 minutes left to be outdoors. The boys usually threw or kicked a ball. The older girls were good at organizing games for the younger children, London Bridge, jump rope, hop scotch. The whole school played Red Light, Green Light. In winter we tramped out a messy circle in the snow for Fox and Geese, or slid and slogged about, falling, wallowing in wet snow until we were red-cheeked and cold. Winter boots of the day were clumsy things pulled on over shoes; snow pants made of wool were thickly bulky and once saturated with melting snow took many hours to dry. Mittens became caked with snow, the fingers within chilled.

When the weather was too cold or wild to be outside we learned to square dance. The school owned a set of the Durlacher records ['Honah your Pahtnah'] desks were pushed back and we happily stomped our way through 'alle-mand right and left' and 'do-si-do.'

Afternoon classes began with a quiet time. With everyone back in their seats the teacher read a chapter from a storybook chosen to have appeal for both the older and younger children. Some put their heads down for a quick nap. [Heads on desks could also be commanded if the school room had gotten noisy or children weren't settling well.]

During the last 15 minutes of the school day the classroom was tidied. Books and papers were put away, chairs straightened. Children took turns to erase and wipe the chalkboards, the felt erasers were taken outside and 'clapped' to rid them of the day's accumulation of chalk dust. Two of the older boys had the privilege of bringing in and carefully folding the flag. The floor was swept, windows closed and fastened; in winter the coal fire was banked with a last hod of coal.

Hot Lunch Program

I was in 3^rd or 4^th grade when a free hot lunch program was provided for Young School. I expect this was at least partially government funded on a state or local level, though I recall a card party held in the cafeteria of the Village School as an effort to raise funds. The meals were prepared and brought in by a woman in the neighborhood whose pay for doing so was likely a mere stipend. Some of the food items were 'commodities,' other components would have required a trip to the nearest large grocery store. The meals were carb and calorie laden, hearty, plain and delicious, similar to what many of us would have been served at home. For the big families with meager means the hot lunch probably provided the best meal some children had for the day.

Laura O'Brian served as the first cook; in the following years Grace Christian took over the role of lunch lady. Laura worked a late shift at the local plywood veneer factory, had her own car. Grace's husband, Lambert, assisted her with packing in kettles and covered pans. Did he wait outside in the car or drive back the scant two miles to their home and then return?

While auburn-haired Laura was quietly efficient in serving food, Grace, a lanky, plain woman, had a loud and cheerful voice. The content of the lunches didn't vary greatly, but the savory smell of hot food being set out on the table at the front of the room made concentration difficult for the last few minutes of arithmetic class

There was a tray of sandwiches, peanut butter and jelly on white store bread; usually a large towel-shrouded kettle of mashed potato; thick gravy made from canned beef or pork [the commodities!] canned veg—corn, peas, green beans with an occasional substitution of canned applesauce. Dessert might be a square of frosted yellow or chocolate 'sheet cake.' Fridays were meatless—both cooks and many of the children were Catholics—with mac and cheese a standard offering. There must have been a few menu variations I don't remember—surely baked beans might have figured in a New England community, perhaps a pan of apple crisp made from the abundant local apples. Milk was served in half pint cartons to wash all this down.

I think we were required to bring at least our own silverware, possibly also an unbreakable plate for each person. There was never any question of each child paying for their lunch.

There was no running water at the school; I hope we lined up before lunch to whisk our grubby paws through a basin of cold water and dry off with a brown paper towel.

Programs and Parties

A Christmas program and Memorial Day 'exercises' were held each year. Both were anticipated events to which parents and neighbors were invited.

Preparation for the Christmas program began as soon as classes resumed after the four day Thanksgiving recess. Cut-outs of black Pilgrim hats and hectically crayoned turkeys came down from the bulletin board to be replaced through December with Santas, stars, Christmas trees and bells cut from red or green construction paper. The off-cuts of construction paper were sliced into ½ inch strips to be looped and pasted [that delicious paste!] into festive paper chains.

Teachers of the day subscribed to a magazine, 'The Grade Teacher,' and from their hoarded copies came the poems, skits and acrostics to be laboriously committed to memory. Rehearsals went on for days with children nearly frantic with anticipation during the last week before 'the program.' Someone's father would bring in a small hemlock or pine cut from a back pasture and an after lunch session was dedicated to trimming the tree with our construction paper chains, wobbly stars and a string or two of Christmas lights supplied by teacher.

One memorable year there was to be a skit in which the younger children were meant to be pajama clad [these to be pulled on over clothing] a sort of waiting for Santa presentation. One grubby little girl from the poorest family innocently confessed that she had no pajamas or nightgown as she went to bed in her slip. On the day before the program there was the quiet presentation of a new flannel nightgown for Patricia; on the night itself most of us turned out in suspiciously new and nappy flannels.

On the evening of the Christmas program parents, grandparents, younger siblings and neighbors crowded the over-heated schoolroom; those grownups who could fit appropriated our desks as seating, a few chairs were put into use, many of the dads leaned against the back wall. We sang our songs, popped out from behind the improvised bedsheet stage curtain to speak our pieces, teacher always just out of sight to prompt anyone suffering stage fright.

I was usually taught a vocal solo meant as a surprise for my mother. Since I could never keep a song to myself and would unwittingly sing it at home Mother had to feign surprise. After my debut performance while a first grader various grownups patted my head telling me I had sung beautifully. I recall that when the last exiting mom praised me saying, 'You sang good,' I wearily replied, 'Yes, I know I did!' [Insufferable little creature!] She immediately reported this to my Mother and on the way home I was given a lesson in the more appropriate response.

As the final song of the evening was belted out there was a great stamping and 'ho-ho-ing' from the entry—someone's dad or uncle had slipped out, squeezed into a red suit, pulled on a cotton batting beard and was prepared to hand out gifts from the tree. There would be tokens from the teacher [who would receive frilly handkerchiefs and jars of hand lotion or, from some child's talented mom perhaps a crocheted doily.] Children could expect colorful boxes of hard candy, popcorn, a nice small gift from the teacher. There was also the custom of 'drawing names' so that each child could give and receive a gift from another student. During the years of the large French family there was an unspoken feeling of dread, for if one of those children drew your name only the cheapest and most disappointing trinket could be expected.

The Memorial Day presentation was a more solemn occasion though no less preparation was made. Some fathers of students had fought in WWII, there had been family members lost to war. Memorial Day exercises were an afternoon program with most of the fathers away at a job or deeply involved in the push of spring work on the farms. Some of the women who attended brushed away tears as we recited our poems, declaimed the Gettysburg Address, waved our little flags and stamped our way through flag drills. We sang, “Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory of the Coming of the Lord', voices rising jubilantly on the chorus, 'Glory, Glory, Hallelujah' while petals fell from the white lilacs we had cut that morning from the bushes that grew in the schoolyard.

For the program in my final year at Young School I memorized 'The Blue and The Grey' and for quite a few years after I could recite the entire poem; now only a few lines remain if memory is jogged.

“By the flow of the inland river,

Whence the fleets of iron have fled,

Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver,

Asleep are the ranks of the dead:”

We were fervent in our singing and marching and recitations, with no concept of the history of war behind us or yet any hint of what was to come.

Though never as elaborately prepared as the Christmas or Memorial Day programs we did observe Halloween and Valentine's Day with school parties. On the day, afternoon classes were suspended. We wore masks [Halloween] bobbed for apples [a messy and unsanitary game which I despised] ate great gobs of candy corn, chocolate, popcorn and apple cider. No one spoke in those days of excess sugar consumption and the behavioral or health issues associated; we went home for the weekend hyper and half sick.

Valentine's Day was a quieter afternoon, a crepe paper decorated box into which we had placed our cards, many homemade, the passing out of heart-shaped pastel candies inscribed with flowery sentiments.  

Changes

I don't recall what year the Young School enrollment was reduced to six grades. During Mrs. Disorda's final year with us [my 4^th grade] the 'big kids' had moved on, the unruly boys were gone. Several families contributed first graders nearly every year, there was little change in the surnames of the group.

When school opened for my 5^th grade year, there was an unfamiliar teacher greeting us. Mrs. Lois Sullivan traveled from her home in Salisbury. This may have been a return to teaching after a hiatus of some years. . She didn't have prior acquaintance with our families, was just learning our names and personalities, establishing a routine when after several weeks she left us. I later learned that she had a household of husband and young children, was active in the family business and in town affairs. It would seem that she thought better of adding full time teaching to her life at that time.

We were surprised to return to school on the last Monday in September and find another new teacher already seated at the desk.

Mrs. Arlene Gray had served in the military as had her husband. They had been struggling to make a going concern of a lake property with a seasonal restaurant catering to the yachts that trawled along Lake Champlain.

Mrs. Gray conducted classes in a more relaxed and unstructured way than her predecessors. She was quietly firm and there were no discipline problems. Mrs Gray wasn't musical, but she read aloud well and the time formerly spent in singing was now a story time.

She dressed simply in twill skirts and plain blouses. For the Christmas Program or other formal meetings she appeared in a well-tailored dark suit that may have been a remnant of her military years.

That first autumn of Mrs. Gray's tenure coincided with a seeming explosion of the resident squirrels who scampered through the bare branches of the shag-bark hickories outside the schoolroom windows. Mrs. Gray encouraged us to notice the antics of the squirrels and to acquaint ourselves with the names and habits of the birds we could see. Her appreciation of the outdoors resulted in a December trek to a nearby neighbor's snowy woodlot where with his permission we selected the schoolhouse Christmas tree, carefully cut down by the older boys.

In May she led us along Knox Hill Road below the schoolhouse where a variety of wildflowers grow.

Fifth grade brought the introduction of fractions and my faulty grasp of math concepts began to emerge. After days of frustration—probably both for me and the teacher—Mrs. Gray had each of us cut a large circle from 'oak-tag' as a base. More circles were created from colored construction paper and we were shown how to use ruler and compass to mark each color into pie-shaped wedges representing halves, quarters, eights, thirds, sixes. Layering these 'slices' in different configurations I could begin to see the relationships. It probably resulted in the most comprehensive vision of math that I have retained.

School Days; A Memoir

Young School after its closure in1960

Photo credit Christy Alger

Many generations received their primary education in one-room schools. One of the first actions in a new township was to designate school districts for rural neighborhoods. Usually a landowner/farmer donated an acre or so of land for the purpose, space enough for the building, the privies, and a play yard. Often the school teacher wasn't much older than her oldest pupils; teachers were most often single women, perhaps still in their mid-teens, the only requirement seemingly an 8th grade education and a willingness to teach. When a woman married, that was the end of her teaching career! 

If she remained single, she might be labeled as a 'school-marm.'

In the era of limited travel teacher boarded with a local family, either one who had children in school or an older couple with a 'spare' bedroom.

My sister Christy recently became involved in a hometown project, the brain child of several people working with the local library and historical society  [housed for more than a century in the same elegant and venerable building on the main street of Orwell, Vermont.]

The plan was to interview or otherwise collect the memories of the increasingly few individuals whose early education took place in three one-room schools that remained open during the 1950's before all were closed and students bussed to the 'Village School.'

Knowing of my interest in history and my penchant for writing, Christy passed the assignment on to me.

I began with a search using my subscription to newspapers.com, an affiliate of ancestry.com. 

I was able to collect news notes from local papers spanning 1920-1960 [Young School closed its doors after the 1959-1960 school term] and created a chronological review before starting on the composition of a personal memoir of my own school years.

I've decided to post the memoir in several installments; that way I'll have it accessible for as long as blogger and I are around. 

Nostalgic essays aren't everyone's favorite reading, so you are fore-warned!

Sharon, Christy, Margaret, circa 1953

I remember that dress--a yellow and brown print with a peplum and brown piping trim. 

Looking Back: School Days

Part One

The one room white-painted schoolhouse faced west onto Young Road, fronted by a rutted wing of gravel that gave way to wiry well-trodden grass. A transomed door accessed  by shallow cement steps, led into the entry, a matching door opened to the coal bin,  A long divided ell connected the back of the main building with two attached privies, one for the boys, one for the girls. Fences on the north and east separated the schoolyard from the Stacy farm's pastures. A hedgerow of trees at the north boundary cast shade over the back windows of the building in spring and fall. 

The unheated entry had rows of hooks on the left wall for jackets and caps; on the right wall were shelves to hold students' lunch boxes and the heavy blue-striped crock with a spigot for dispensing drinking water; each day two of the older boys would carry between them a water pail filled at the Stacy milk house.

Stepping inside, across from the door was a bank of tall windows which covered about 2/3rds of the east wall. Blackboards were mounted on much of the right hand wall, with a low table and small chairs arranged there for hearing the youngest children's reading classes. A closed cupboard to the right of the doorway held various supplies of paper, boxes of powdered 'poster paint,' paste jars, extra pencils. 

I don't recall my official first day of school in September, 1950. I'm thinking that for at least the first week Mother would have driven me the ½ mile up the road to the white clap-boarded building, maybe even collected me in the afternoon.

A fragment of memory persists of a late afternoon during the previous year when my hand firmly in Daddy's grip, we walked up the dirt road and Daddy pointed out the school I would soon be attending. 

The schoolhouse door was open and when we stepped quietly into the entry we discovered that the teacher, Miss Ruth Goddard, was there as was Phyllis Stacy who lived next door.

In my mind the sense of autumn persists: warm afternoon sun, goldenrod blooming in the rough verges of the road. The walk home after my father had exchanged a few pleasantries with Miss Goddard is not in the picture.

 

During May, 1950 Young School held a 'visiting day' for children who would enter first grade in September. Mother arranged with Iris Stacy that I would go home to lunch with Phyllis, then in 4h or 5th grade. At the Stacy home I was shown to the bathroom, then served a light meal in the Stacy's pleasant kitchen, after which I  followed Phyllis up the slope, through her grandparents' yard and so back to school. There would be several other children in my first grade class; were they present on that day? Did Miss Goddard give us crayons and paper? How did we spend the hours?

As the new school year got underway I walked the half mile most days, trudging behind an older girl, Betty O'Brien. Betty was a stolid person, taciturn and studious, probably not impressed with having a first grader tagging behind. Conversation with her was not encouraged. 

The next year my younger sister Christy started school and there were other neighborhood children straggling up the road, singly or in family groups: Downeys, Labsheres,and then later the two Quenneville girls, Simone and Jane.

The teacher for the first four years that I attended the Young School was Mrs. Viola Disorda of Sudbury, the next small town to the east. Mrs. Disorda, a seasoned area teacher, was age 45 in 1950. She was a buxom woman with lavender-grey hair that curled about her face. She wore crisp dresses, neat cardigans, a brooch at her collar, colorful earrings. She used a peachy face powder, a hint of rouge and red lipstick.

One of the most memorable things about Mrs. Disorda was her musical ability. There was no piano at the Young School, but within weeks of Mrs. Disorda's installation she must have put out a plea for an instrument. 

In what was referred to as 'the old house' across from my Grampa Mac's farmhouse, long since used as a storage space, there was a parlor pump organ. This was offered to the school, conveyed there, dusted off and put into immediate use. Mrs. Disorda played well with a lively beat. [I learned much later that she was in local demand as a 'rag-time' pianist.] Mrs. Disorda didn't drive and was conveyed to and from school by her husband, Alfred Disorda, a wiry rusty-haired man who drove an ancient pickup truck. On winter days, Alfred came in to deal with the coal stove before going on his way.

The songs with which we opened the morning session [after the flag salute] were standards from the Golden Book of Songs: patriotic numbers such as 'America the Beautiful,' 'Tramp, Tramp, Tramp,' old sing-along favorites such as 'Red River Valley' and 'Clementine.'. How did we learn them? Were the words written on the blackboard? Memorized by rote? I could learn words and melodies quickly and found these 'morning exercises' to be the best part of the school day. 

During the tenure of Mrs. Disorda the school accommodated 8 grades. The great hurdle for first graders was learning to read. I had an advantage in already recognizing and being able to print the alphabet. We were drilled on simple words by the use of 'flash cards' and then began the adventure of putting those words together in the very simple tales of 'Dick, Jane, Sally, their dog, Spot, their cat, Puff.' [Look, look, see Spot run!]  With reading class over we turned to workbooks featuring exercises such as circling the non-matching object in a pictured group. As a way of stressing the alphabet we were handed a big sheet of paper, a folded paper towel with a gob of paste, and directed to cut pictures from a stash of old magazines and catalogs—the idea being to identify the letter of the day and paste our examples onto the paper. We applied the glue with our fingers and there were those who found the sticky residue tasty. Learning to write was accomplished by at first tracing and then copying upper and lower case letters on specially lined yellow paper.

Photo credits Christy Alger

I was quiet with a studious nature and as my difficulties with math comprehension were yet to be revealed I could complete my work quickly and neatly. Learning to read and write opened a world of exploration and adventure.

Many of the students belonged to a large French Canadian family who didn't speak English at home. For these children first grade was a struggle of learning to comprehend English, a process which meant that each in turn repeated the first grade to get on with the rudiments of using a language that was foreign to them.

Disturbances

The first weeks of school were a delight. Girls in the upper grades were kind to the younger children and I became friends with two girls a grade ahead of me. If my remembered count is accurate there were 23 students in attendance in the 1950-51 school year ranging from first through eighth grade. Eight of those pupils were from the French Canadian family, four were from a sizable family lodged in the Quenneville tenement house. 

From these two families there were six boys who began to 'sass' the teacher, or create distracting noise and disruptions. My desk with the other primary children was in the front row and I seldom saw what started the disturbances which quickly escalated to full-on battles between the boys in question and Mrs. Disorda. When reprimanded they refused to obey, 'talked back,' grumbled. On such occasions Mrs. Disorda might approach the culprit with a ruler or blackboard 'pointer' in hand, her voice raised in scolding. During one fracus she snatched up the stove poker and brandished it. After such confrontations she sometimes retreated to her desk at the front of the room, angry tears streaking through her face powder as she attempted to compose herself before continuing with the next class recitations.

 

One chilly morning after a day of more than the usual series of disruptions, Alfred Disorda waited inside the school room for the older boys to arrive. Taking a stand beside his wife he lectured the boys on their disrespectful behavior. Alfred was a man of small physical stature with little command of words, but he was plainly indignant. After he left the boys shuffled, smirked, swaggered to their seats, unrepentant.

These altercations had a frightening effect on me and so I began a spell of fussing that I didn't want to go to school. I wasn't able to articulate to my parents why the tense atmosphere was spoiling school for me. What I could do was to balk, wail, sit solidly on the floor and protest that I no longer wanted to get ready for school and out the door of a morning. My mother's distress was great and her patience with me was laudable. In the end, each day after my stint of unhappy rebellion my tears were mopped up, my face washed and I was delivered to the school house door. I don't recall how long I continued to stage my miserable protests; in the end, I understood I was expected to attend school and make the best of it. I may have eventually realized that the unpleasantness wasn't a daily occurrence, no one was likely to be physically harmed, and I couldn't waste each day in dreading what might happen.

It is interesting to look back and realize the combative boys ranged in ages from 8 to 12. Three of them were from the French-speaking household. While they had learned to communicate in English most of the school subjects involved reading and writing, likely still a challenge. Their home situation was turbulent, they carried responsibility for many chores; sitting at a desk with a book opened before them likely had little appeal. The remaining three boys seemed alternately surly or mouthy. Neither of the families would have been approachable to discuss behavior problems if the teacher had even wanted to admit that she wasn't in control of her classroom.

 

May 12

Wherever in the house I happen to be working I frequently glance out the nearest window. 

On Thursday, turning from stove to kitchen sink I caught sight of the rippling grass of the meadow. 

Wind blowing through a stand of grass, bending the stalks, creating a sheen of moving light, has always captured my attention.

For a brief instant I was transported to other meadows, other times and places, struck by the recognizable prickle of delight.

By the time I walked outside with my camera the riffle of wind had dropped, the tall grass barely moved. The hay is ready for mowing. Our good neighbor Titus Beachy and his boys have managed the hay crop for several years. 

When the local Beachy Amish church decreed a division of membership, lots were drawn to determine which families must relocate to start a new church.

The lot fell, among others, to Titus and Lillian.

Their fresh produce sales and the surplus grocery store are already missed as well as their presence in our lives.

Titus assured Jim that a cousin [or is it a nephew]  still nearby would take over the care of the meadow, and the man in question did roar in earlier to spread fertilizer.

Frequent rain has slowed the hay harvest in the area and as I walk the boundary loop the scent of ripe grass mingles with the perfume of blossoming blackberry canes, of invasive wild roses and the exotic sweetness of honeysuckle, all rampant in the hedgerows. 

Jim's potatoes are up and growing. 

In my untidy west wall garden perennial foxglove is making a statement. 

The prolonged mild and wet autumn brought decay to several of the parent plants and the usual crop of seedlings was tardy in emerging. Each time I walk by the wall I stop to tweak out a few weeds, clearing space around each tiny volunteer plant. Some, too near the edge of the retaining wall, will need to be relocated when they are larger, others will be allowed to grow where they have sprung up.

May--the season of headlong growth, the rush into summer.

 

Garden Progress

Queen of Denmark

I was outside before breakfast this morning a bit inclined to feel grumpy after a night with little sleep.

My two surviving David Austin roses are loaded with half-opened buds and the sight of them banished my mental cobwebs.

I made two trips with scissors clipping blooms to bring inside. 

The Poet's wife [yellow]

White single peonies, the first to open.

Jim retrieved the repaired tiller this morning and decreed that we would set out the tomatoes and peppers.

This we accomplished with the usual disagreements about spacing. He plants things too closely and we end up with a mid-summer jungle. I suspect it can't be helped.

Another row of sweet corn went in; this has become a partnership of planting as J. contrived a device made from a length of hollow pipe with a funnel attached to the top. My job is to drop seed into the funnel as J. pokes the pipe at regular intervals along the row.

It beats getting on my knees to plant. I did get down to pick up spilled corn kernels [I didn't spill them!] and had to be ignominiously hauled up onto my feet.

Jim was anxious to put in cucumbers and winter squash--I produced enough small plants for a hill of each, leaving the rest of my seedlings to grow on for another week.

I've pricked out signet marigolds and teddy bear sunflowers from their trays and potted on, as well as the largest of my second crop tomatoes.

Time spent in my tiny greenhouse is always precious. Working in there, handling soil, seeds and plants I am content, almost forgetting that I am 'old,' temporarily shelving various worries and concerns.  

Early yesterday evening as I was tidying the benches before going inside for supper, I felt a stirring as though a breeze had brushed through my hair. 'That's odd,' I thought and half turned to the open door to see if the wind had come up.

It hadn't, but a bluebird had swooped in, its passage creating the small draft I had felt. It fluttered against the roof in the far corner, flailing for a second before reversing and heading back outside.

We weren't familiar with starting beets in cell packs. Matt bought several trays at the Amish auction last month and shared with us. I was dubious, but willing to try as our beet crops from seed have failed the past two seasons. These have taken off sturdily in the raised bins. Yesterday we discovered that the beet seed sowed on April 17th has sprung up. Gardening is full of surprises!

Broccoli and early cabbage plants also from Matt's auction haul. The wire panels are meant to keep cats from investigating. 

We were finishing our garden work when M and G stopped on their way home from today's auction.

We were presented with 2 gallons of strawberries, several hothouse tomatoes.

Berries and cream--before supper--and sliced tomatoes with tuna salad on homemade bread.

I have sliced and frozen about half of the berries, the rest have been tenderly covered with moist paper towels and refrigerated to be dealt with tomorrow. 

I realized late this evening that we had forgotten the Wednesday run to tend Howard's cats.

While they won't have starved I'm chagrined to realize that this responsibility so easily slipped my mind.

We will visit them first thing in the morning.

No time today to read or write.

Thimble-kitten is gearing up for her nightly activities, whacking a large green bottle cap about the room. I am too tired to play 'chase the bottle cap!'

 Tomorrow is another day.

April Review

First strawberries from the commercial berry farm. 

I follow them on Facebook so that we can decide when to drive to the farm stand half an hour away. The stand opens about 8 a.m. and the berries quickly sell out. 

There was heavy rain on Tuesday [29th] evening and when I awoke Wednesday around 6 a.m. the meadow below the house was thick with fog. 

I considered getting out of bed, but there seemed no good reason, so I curled up with Rosie-cat under my arm. I was jolted awake later--that feeling that someone is looming nearby--I focused blearily on Jim who was demanding to know if I intended to go after berries.

I fumbled into yesterday's clothes, poured my half cup of morning coffee into a travel mug and stumbled out the door. 

Its a pretty drive of winding rural roads, past farms, crossroads churches and then a short distance on a main highway.

I felt anxious that we would be too late, but we wheeled in while there were still a few gallon buckets left on the wagon.

I set our bucketful on the console between us, carefully selecting and hulling berries one at a time--one for Jim, one for me. 

We detoured to take in the South Fork shops on the way home, stopping also to see if J's Troy Bilt tiller had been repaired. [Still waiting as the decision was made for a replacement engine]

I wandered happily about in my favorite garden center, spending my birthday gift certificate for two sturdy planting tubs. 

Howard is working on a job out of state so we drove to his place to check on his cats. Two of them were happy to see us--two, predictably, hid as though we might be dangerous intruders.

On to the nearby huge sprawl of greenhouses at Sunny Day where we encountered Mary, one of our Amish neighbors when we lived at the farm. 

I collected more plants for my tubs to go with those donated by Matt and Gina from their latest auction haul.

Finally I have two pots of calendulas!  Every spring I poke seed into trays, every spring I have to buy calendulas. I will undoubtedly buy seed and try again next year.

Nursery tomatoes and peppers earlier potted on and nurtured in my small greenhouse are ready to go into the garden. Two tomato varieties new to me, from Southern Seed Exchange have germinated quickly in plastic packs, likewise bush cucumbers and melons.

Jim has replanted his corn, grumbling that it didn't germinate, while I try not to smugly retort 'I told you the ground was too cold!" 

I finished the essay I was asked to write concerning my attendance at the Young School, the last one-room school in my home town to be closed. 

I began this project by clipping news items re the school, its teachers and pupils from 1920 through its closure in 1960. I used my subscription to newspapers.com for this. Not surprisingly for every 'hit' about the school I had to read the entire column of 'news notes' relating the joys and sorrows, the outings and tasks of the neighborhood. 

As I wrote I felt that my effort was taking on a tone of nostalgia, and yet--what else could it be with looking back so many years! My essay wound up at 11 pages, a highly personal look at the years of my education process.

I had some idea of sharing the writing here  in serial fashion, but perhaps not an idea that could work well.

My current writing project involves a diary kept in 1904 by a woman who lived her entire life in my home town. I've had the diary for perhaps 20 years, had read it previously. I feel it should be returned to the place from which it came, but with notes to identify the families and relationships mentioned. 

I admit to a [weird?] propensity for perusing old documents, census and vital records, peering at vintage maps while attempting to mentally recreate the town as it was more than a century ago. 

The names of these long-dead folks trip through my wakeful mind in the wee hours, their 'stories' more interesting to me than a novel. 

As a child I loved to listen to the tales of older people. I was 'the little mouse in the corner' gathering and storing up the memory crumbs of another generation--and to what good purpose?

As my grandson fondly remarked a while back, 'Meme, when you die, a lot of useless information will go with you!'

As I finish this April diary, the green darkness of rumbling thunder and spattering rain has moved in; the sage bush by the front steps, heavily in bloom, has splayed its branches beneath the onslaught. The small flowering plants tucked into the tubs yesterday are thus far holding up.

There is yet another hapless bird scrabbling in the stove pipe.

The temperature has plunged by 10 degrees and I think a mug of tea would be welcome.

Garden Sage

Duchess of Edinburgh

I noticed that the date and time setting on the camera had reverted to December.

I'm using a different Canon 'point and shoot'--one that Howard brought to me, discovered when he was sorting things. My older camera still takes the usual quality of photos but the contact point for the lead cable is worn and it has been an ongoing battle to transfer photos to the PC.

Pinks along the west retaining wall

May Apple

Spiderwort in the shady edge of the south ravine