Starting School

STARTING SCHOOL

by Ruth Latta

    When I started Grade One at Savard Consolidated School, back in 1952, I had yellow hair like Baby Sally in the primary reader and was very nervous about leaving my family all day, five days a week. My mother, who used to teach the primary grades at our two room rural school, told me that I would be fine.

    Living on  a backwoods farm in Northeastern Ontario, I hadn’t much experience with other children. My sister, who was three when I started school, was a good companion, though a bit young.  My four cousins, who, at the time, ranged in age from seven to infancy, lived on the same farm as my grandmother, but because of winter weather and unplowed roads, we didn’t see much of them in the winter. The eldest had been in school for a year, but hadn’t done well and disliked it. He would be no comfort to me as a shy newcomer at school.

    Fortunately, the teacher, whom I will call Mrs. J, a motherly woman with several grown children, had sympathy for timid little crybabies.  As long as she was there in the classroom I felt that all was well. She commuted thirteen miles from town every day, and since the bus got me to school ahead of her, I used to watch for her from the big windows in the hall, and felt better when her little car pulled into the driveway. Mrs. J. was thrilled that I could read, write and do some arithmetic and promptly promoted me into Grade Two. My mother was elated.

    Years later, when I was teaching elementary school, I realized that Mrs. J. had been faced with a huge task. She had four grades and thirty pupils.  Only a few of the children knew any phonics; number concepts were a mystery to many.  Like a gymnast, she had to move from one group to another, while overseeing everyone and making sure we were learning something.

    When I finished my work, I was happy to peruse my reader and enjoy the adventures of Dick, Jane and Baby Sally, who had a dog named Spot and a cat named Puff.  The bookcase, known as “the library”, was a treasure trove of books like the Thornton Burgess nature novels, and the Bobbsey Twin series.  Fascinated by the idea of twins, I observed the twins in Grade Two, two girls who were not identical.  One had, and still has, red hair and the other, brown.  They knew a lot of songs from the radio, such as “It Wasn’t God Who Made Honkeytonk Angels,” a song with a strong feminist message.

    In addition to her responsibilities in the primary room, Mrs. J. was supposed to teach Home Economics to the Grade 7 and 8 girls, while the principal taught manual training to the senior boys.  He had work benches at the back of his classroom, but she had to leave her classroom to go upstairs to the community hall, where the Women’s Institute met monthly. Cooking could be done in the kitchen at one end, and the tables were useful for cutting out fabric.

    On Home Ec. days, the principal kept an eye on his younger students while at the back of the room teaching the older boys woodworking.  Mrs. J. had to leave us under the eye of  a monitor from his Grade Six class. The children ran wild, picked fights with each other, threw things and scribbled on the board.  Hair-pulling and pinching broke out. I hated Home Ec. days and huddled with my book, watching the clock and praying that Mrs. J. would soon return.

Sometime in November, Mrs. J. asked for a raise in pay. In those days in Ontario, each little  school had its own board and teachers didn’t bargain collectively.  My uncle, a school trustee, and the other men on the board, thought she on  was being unreasonable; after all, her husband earned a decent income from the railway. They said no, and Mrs. J. resigned.

This news was kept from me so as not to spoil my enjoyment of the Christmas concert. It was a big day in my life, as Mrs. J. had asked me to stand on a chair in front of the stage and pretend to conduct the rhythm band.  Sometime before school resumed in January, my mother broke the news.

    The new teacher, a Miss Thompson, was a kindly old soul who needed a job, but  couldn’t command the children’s attention, not even when she read us a story.  Anything I learned that winter was from playing school at home with my mother and sister. I brought my books home and learned the Grade Two curriculum.

    In June, when Miss Thompson was about to leave, my mother thought we should give her a present. I said yes, if we could get one for Mrs. J. too.  I wanted to see her again in the hope of coaxing her back. In Stedman’s Store, (which was like the dollar stores of today), my mother selected a box of handkerchiefs for Miss Thompson (since this was before the era of disposable tissues) and suggested that we get same for Mrs. J. Meanwhile, I was examining some plastic pencil cases in the shape of a big yellow sharpened pencil, which had multi-coloured pencils inside. I knew she’d like it more than anything.

    When we took them to her house one spring day, she greeted us like old friends and exclaimed over the pencils. Alas, she couldn’t come back to Savard School. She had been supply-teaching in town and was going to continue in the fall.

“I hear that you’re going back to teach, Eva,” she said to my mother. “You’ll find that primary room a challenge.”

I didn’t quite understand all this, but after we left, my mother explained that she was going to be the primary room teacher at Savard School in September. There was a teacher shortage during those baby boom years and the local inspector from the Ministry of Education had asked her to come back.  In the fall, we would be going to school together.

“Can Sandra come too?” I asked.

My mother looked sad.  “She’s only four so she’ll have to stay with Daddy. A year from September when she’s five she can come to school with us. Meanwhile, we’re going to buy a new truck, and I’ll be able to pay the back taxes on the farm."

    Though Sandra and I didn’t always find it easy being in my mother’s classroom, we were always glad that she went back to teach.