By the end of August, wild grasses along the ditches were drying, and their ripening heads drooped in graceful arcs. Rosehips had long since replaced the pink blossoms of June. Wild bees hovered in droves, over purple asters and goldenrod growing by pasture fences and bordering the woods. Days were noticeably shorter and cooler, and we started keeping a fire in the stove for heat, not just for cooking.
Mother’s attempt to conserve kerosene by going to bed at dark, and getting up after sunrise, was becoming increasingly untenable. She was not happy with our only source of indoor light — the smoky old lantern. Daddy responded quickly to her request for a replacement, sending us a new kerosene lamp that became the centerpiece for our table. Cleaning its glass chimney with crumpled newspapers became my responsibility.
Our new adventures that had made each day in June so different and exciting became almost routine by the end of summer, and gradually blended with our weeks and then months of experience — effectively severing any remaining ties to city life and our former selves. But our long days of freedom, roaming wagon trails through fields, and exploring The Big Woods were about to change….
Mother started making a new red and white print dress for me to wear on the first day of school. She asked Daddy to “send John a new tie to wear to school and a pencil like Ruth’s blue one, only a different color.” In her next letter, considering the more-than-a-mile we would be walking to and from school every day, she asked him to buy us raincoats, “Get a red one for Ruth and a yellow slicker for John,” and then suggested that he pick out one for himself as well.
Daddy wrote me before the big day: “I suppose you are getting ready for school. I hope you like it. I think you will like to carry your lunch; it will be like having a picnic every day. But you must work hard while you are in class. Let me know what you need to work with and I will send it to you.” He sent the raincoats in his next package, and I wrote, “Thanks a heap for the raincoat it fits just swell,” John, brief as usual, said “Gee but I like the raincoat.” Mother said, “They look so nice in them and Ruth’s is such a pretty color….They were both pleased with your surprises…”
We had driven by the little white schoolhouse, set in a clearing in the woods, several times on our way to and from Park Rapids. Each time, I was impressed by the tall bell tower, jutting up like a church steeple from the front roof. A six foot wide cement stoop, leading to the main entrance, extended across the front. To the right of the building, was a large grassy play area with swings, teeter totters, and a set of turning bars.
Near the edge of the woods were the boys’ and girls’ outhouses — an appropriate distance apart. To the right and nearer the road was the pump-house. A wide arc of plowed land served as a firebreak to separate the school area from the woods. Across the road, through a thin stand of poplar and tamarack, we could see glimpses of the slough lying beyond.
Having adapted so thoroughly to our new environment, a one-room rural school seemed natural to us. But we were sure it would be different from Miles Standish, a large red brick building we had attended in Minneapolis. We knew that on the first day of school there, all of the students would be dressed up like Sunday school, and they’d form lines in front of the main door, girls in one line with ribbons in their hair, wearing starched cotton dresses and shiny black patent leather shoes (Mary Janes) over white anklets. Boys, in the other line, would wear their nicest white shirts, knickers, argyle socks and Buster Brown shoes. When the first morning bell rang, the principal would play a Sousa march on the phonograph in the front hall, and we would all parade to our classrooms, stepping in time with the music…
Mother had the fire started, and breakfast underway, even before she called us at seven o’clock that Tuesday. John looked impressive in his new clothes, but I had to settle for wearing a dress from last year. Sewing my new dress by hand had taken longer than Mother expected, and it still lay unfinished in her workbasket. She took extra care ironing my nicest old one though, so that the lengthened hemline hardly showed.
John and I ate breakfast and did our chores while Mother made our lunches and put them in honey pails for us to carry. We were still gathering our tablets and pencils when Darrel came up to the door.
Mother walked to school with us. The school bell rang as we reached the top of Wild Horse Hill, so we stepped up our pace. Passing the firebreak clearing, we saw our classmates gathered on the cement step by the main door. We’d heard some of the various rumors which had been circulating about us — the new city folks living on the abandoned farm — but we knew little about any of the other kids. Darrel, suddenly faced with divided loyalties, quickly deserted us to join the other children.
That made eleven of them, all ages and sizes, from first to eighth grade. The oldest boy was almost as tall as our teacher, and two girls were only slightly shorter. Only one girl, about John’s age, had dressed up for the occasion. The three oldest girls wore two dresses each, but with holes in different places so their bodies were fully covered. Some boys wore only patched overalls, and most of the children were barefoot.
Our teacher, Miss Eula, who hardly looked older than some of the pupils, stood in the doorway. Her straight cut honey blond hair, parted on the side, was shining golden in the sun. Her cotton print dress contrasted sharply with the mostly plain and tattered clothes of her students. She introduced herself and invited everyone inside.
As we looked around at the students and our obviously young teacher, the impact of our new rural education began to register. This motley crew would hardly make an impressive parade into the school — even with a rousing Sousa march playing in the background. As a former teacher, Mother must have wondered how one so young, and apparently inexperienced, could manage a schoolroom, and without the support of a principal for maintaining discipline.
Entering the schoolhouse, we first passed through the cloak hall which ran the width of the building. Inside was a long row of clothing hooks below a shelf for books and lunches. Most kids brought five pound honey pails like ours, but from the sack lunches we could smell the aromas of newly baked bread, peanut butter and jelly, fresh garden tomatoes, and home made deserts. As I found an empty spot on the shelf for mine, I was already looking forward to eating it sitting outside on the concrete stoop.
Doors at each end of the coat hall opened into the classroom. The most prominent feature was a rope, the thickest I had ever seen, hanging down from the bell tower and knotted at the end. Miss Eula introduced herself to Mother, and explained that the first bell, the one we had heard from Wild Horse Hill, would ring fifteen minutes before class began. It was now time for the final bell, and I watched in awe as she grabbed the end of the rope with both hands. I could feel the clanging through my feet, echoing in the cloak room, and heard the diminishing sound as it rang out across the countryside.
In the schoolroom itself, John and I were surprised to see the variety of desks that were all arranged in rows, facing the front. There were both single and double desks of assorted sizes to fit the range of students. Miss Eula’s desk was stationed along the front wall, between the doors to the cloak hall, and a there was a small row of seats near her for recitation.
Along the back wall we noticed a map rack, book case, supply cupboard, and a small wood stove, which could be used to bake a potato, or warm up soup or cocoa for lunch during the winter. But the main source of heat was a furnace in the basement, directly under a large register in the center of the floor — hardly a concern on this stifling hot day. We chose our desks, and Mother left to return home.
John and I were particularly interested in our first activity of the day — introductions — as Miss Eula had each student give his or her name and grade. Although it was mainly for her benefit, we were eager to learn more about our classmates, and they seemed to pay extra attention when it was our turn….
We learned that five of the students were from the same family — the three girls wearing double dresses, along with their younger sister and brother. Ages ranged from six to sixteen, and every grade from one to eight was represented. The oldest boy was still with us because he had missed so much class time while helping his family with farm work. Two of the children were cousins. I rather enjoyed my privileged status of being the entire fourth grade class. The third grade was twice as large, consisting of John and the little dressed-up girl, whose name we learned was Mavis. As a gifted student, John had skipped first grade, so although he was two years younger than me, he was only one grade level behind.
When lunch time finally came we made the unfortunate discovery that our honey pails did not hold enough to satisfy our appetites. We managed to survive the afternoon though, and raced home after school to tell Mother everything.
She listened to our account of the day’s activities with interest — over milk and some of her fresh baked cookies — but remained neutral about Miss Eula.
Her letter to Daddy, which she wrote after leaving us at school that day, did not comment on her reactions to either Miss Eula or the school, mentioning instead that “it’s pretty quiet and lonesome here.” The three of us had been together all summer. Even when John and I were outside playing, we were never far away and checked in with her periodically. It was somewhat of a shock to realize that she would be home alone all day in that tiny house, without a radio — and our nearest neighbors a half mile away. Other farm women fixed lunches for their husbands who came home to eat every day.
Mother’s isolation had not changed her mind about living on the farm, however and she made that clear in her letters, “I believe we had better stay here this winter but we’ll talk that over later. The children are feeling fine and I would too if I could get away once in a while…. .”
In my next letter I complained, “We have to use honey pails and they are too small all we can get in um is 4 half sandwiches and some sauce a spoon 1 cooky and some crackers and a napkin.” I also thanked him for the pair of “Scizers” he had sent me. Earlier I wrote that I had picked “a bokay of flowers the colors are perpul, blue and yellow and they are very pritty.”…. Miss Eula had a big job ahead of her….
A few days later Daddy wrote “I found you a dandy dinner pail that matches your new coat and it has a nice little tray in the top where you can carry pie, cake, or cookies and have sandwiches in the lower part. It cost 35 cents and is well made.” He also got one for John, writing to him that his was “like Ruth’s only a different color — yours is blue. I think you will like it fine.”
We quickly fell into the routine of school, our new classmates offering a welcome change from our constant companionship. We also enjoyed the variety of lessons being taught in the classroom. There were new choices, so as I completed assignments, I could eavesdrop on the other activities going on around me. At the end of our first week Mother wrote: “The children like their school and teacher and don’t mind the walk.” Those were the last favorable words she would ever have for either the school or our teacher….
The more mischievous members of the class quickly recognized Miss Eula’s vulnerability. Still literally a teenager herself, she had only one year’s training beyond her small-town high school education. Even worse, she lacked the strong personality necessary to work with older students — especially those who are not natural scholars.
They wasted no time in testing her. One of the younger boys zinged a spitball at another student while Miss Eula was writing on the blackboard. Amused furtive glances spread throughout the room, until finally someone could no longer suppress a giggle. Turning around to face the class, she saw only innocent faces. There was a silent consensus that the maneuver had been far too successful to abandon. Soon, the attacks became more numerous — and daring — as spitballs struck the blackboard where she was writing. Her glaring scans of the room always revealed only perfectly engaged students working diligently. John and I were amazed….
We shuddered to imagine what would have happened to these rebels at Miles Standish. There teachers had earned our respect by maintaining discipline — rarely needing to send an errant pupil to the principal’s office. Of course poor Eula had no principal of last resort. We watched the entertaining drama unfold, but did not take part in any mischief ourselves — nor did we report these activities to Mother.
Perhaps initially, our classmates were trying to shock the new “city kids,” but as they gradually discovered — to their delight — the full extent of Miss Eula’s ineptitude at maintaining order in the realm, chaos reigned. Spit balls were replaced by erasers flying around the classroom, hitting the black boards and leaving splash marks of white powder on the board and clouds of chalk dust hanging in the air. She had lost the battle….
The rebellion spread like a contagion, and soon one of the older boys was openly taunting her. When she came toward him he jumped up on top of his desk and ran from one desktop to another — all around the room. Miss Eula was so close to childhood herself, it was difficult for her to keep a straight face as she helplessly watched some of their outrageous pranks. Two of the more brazen younger children climbed up on cupboards out of her reach and teased her by calling down, “smile Eula, smile,” which, to her own chagrin, she often ended up doing.
But, knowledge of the rebellion was slow in passing beyond our walls. Parents and school board members remained blissfully unaware of the circus their school had become; Miss Eula remained mum on the topic of classroom anarchy. The game changed, however, when one boy started taking things from lunches out in the coat-hall. He’d crossed a line, and, deprived of their favorite treats at noon — they finally broke the silence….
Anyone leaving the class room, whether heading to the pump house for a drink or to the outhouses, had to pass through the coat hall where the lunches were kept. A little elementary detective work soon revealed the culprit. In a neighborhood where family reputations are important and memories are long, he turned out to be the son of a school board member. Whatever father-and-son exchange took place after that, the lunch-napping stopped, as well as some of the more egregious behavior. By then, Mother had heard some of the stories from Jensons…. who heard it from their relatives….