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A rural school timepiece tick-tocked its way through my early formal learning years. Sometimes
its sound was blunted by the shuffle of laggard feet when classes were called to recitation. Occasionally its strident
tones encroached on a subdued room when someone was doing something he shouldn't. We would cast surreptitious glances
desk-ward while awaiting the outcome, intent on what teacher would do to quell the incipient situation.
The clock on the wall seemed to knock loudest the day I was required to stay after school. It banged on the silence
even after voices disappeared in the distance, leaving two of us in an otherwise empty room. I still remember agonizing
hours until the reason for staying became apparent.
Miss Jones was our teacher. I’m not sure, even now, how she managed nine grades (kindergarten through the eighth
grade) in a one-room school but she did. She taught by the recitation method and delegated jobs like bringing in
wood and water, important duties and much sought after by many of my classmates.
Bill Hanley, in later years a successful businessman, was assigned to keep the clock running smoothly. I was awed
by what he did the first day school became part of my life.
A chair helped him climb to a table top immediately below the clock. Once elevated he opened the case to retrieve
a key and soon the timepiece was being prepared for another period.
Bill turned the ratchet in studied silence with all eyes riveted on what he was doing. Then he replaced the key
on a customary hook, closed the case, and jumped from his table-perch, disdaining the chair that assisted in climbing.
I watched with fascinated admiration while Bill performed the daily operation and secretly hoped I might, someday,
do the same, at least once. If I considered his leaving for high school, a few miles distant, the thought was fleeting
and made little impression. To my immature mind he was a fixture and would be around indefinitely.
Soon after Bill regained his desk, an orderly schedule of classes began. Every fifteen minutes or less, pupils
flowed to a recitation bench, returning later to make way for another set of learners. Sometimes there were three
in a class and occasionally as many as five. With nine grades and a total of forty or so, it was doubtful more
could be expected. One session, no one showed up for third grade until the Wilkins twins moved into the neighborhood.
Then there were two.
In early May, about the time apple trees put out a burst of blossoms to scent the air and advertise for bees, Miss
Jones asked me to stop at her desk after school. It was the end of my fourth grade and summer recess was imminent.
She didn’t make a verbal request but laid a folded note on my open book. I looked up questioningly; but before
there was opportunity to examine the missive or say anything, her attention was required elsewhere.
In a daze of trepidation I stumbled to my battered desk, clutching the paper with a clammy hand and read it furtively
beyond reach of curious eyes. What it said left me cold, apprehensive, and panic-stricken. Its message was short,
as though there wasn’t time to write more: “Please see me after school."
Teachers represented unquestioned authority in those days and I spent miserable hours contemplating even unintentional
misdeeds I might have perpetrated. Many things flitted through a disorganized mind to be replaced by still others.
At lunch time I tried to appear nonchalant, chewing doggedly on a sandwich; but contents of the note continued
its annoying disturbance.
Clock hands seemed to stand still while afternoon hours crawled towards inevitable close. I wanted time to hurry,
to get the matter over with; but then I didn't. What loomed ahead was terrifying.
Lower grades, including kindergarten, were excused at recess time and they left in a welter of subdued chatter,
frolicking out the open door into bright sunshine. I watched them go, remembering carefree years when I had been
one of them and there was no teacher's summons.
Even the short recess that followed failed to arouse dormant ideas; although I did consider, briefly, slinking
away while others were engaged in a spirited game of “ante over the schoolhouse." At the last moment my will
reneged and laggard feet took me indoors to a desk offering at least temporary shelter. I tried to steel myself
for the ordeal ahead while pretending to study, but the effort failed to arouse more than confused thinking.
The long afternoon eventually wore itself out and a final class returned to recently-vacated seats. As was her
usual habit, Miss Jones rearranged scattered books, trying to bring some semblance of order to an otherwise tidy
desk.
With everything completed to her satisfaction she looked at the clock then glanced downward to her pinafore watch,
apparently to verify time.
An expectant hush fell over the room; and when the dismissal signal was given everyone, but me, moved with alacrity,
some showering pitying glances my way. I envied them their freedom and could only guess how anyone knew my presence
was required after school. Lunch pails, with one exception, vanished in a frenzy of activity, while whoops erupted
even before the schoolroom doorway was cleared.
Disconsolate loneliness enveloped me, and I stared at my mutilated desk top, ignoring numerous initials carved
over the years by stealthy hands. Distant voices faded, to die away altogether; and the clock soon was contributing
the only sound, shattering an almost unbearable silence. I looked towards Miss Jones' desk, expecting a momentary
summons; but she appeared to be working on last-minute details.
Summoning almost extinct courage, I shoved reluctant feet into the empty aisle and got up uncertainly before moving
forward. A turtle might have gone faster; and after what seemed an interminable time I reached the platform with
its desk looming above. What would the charge be? I cringed at the thought of potential sentences.
Miss Jones looked up; and to my amazement she actually smiled, swiveling towards my apprehensive face. Her voice
broke the strained silence when she thanked me for coming; then continued, apparently unaware of the tribulation
her note had caused. “Bill is graduating this week and someone will be needed to take his place. Would you like
the job?"
I stared in bewildered disbelief, then turned wondering eyes to the wall-mounted timepiece. Relief surged to my
head, making me feel somewhat giddy. To a boy, nearing nine, whose daydreams included clock winding, there could
be no more than one answer. Abashed, I nodded quickly, awed by a sudden change of fortune.
She arose then, took my hand, and together we started towards the clock, pausing beside the table while she pulled
out a chair and helped me clamber upward.
Once on the table, my head was almost level with the lazy pendulum and I reached out a tentative hand to open the
case like I had seen Bill do many times. Breathing seemed just a little difficult, but a palsied hand managed to
fumble the key loose from its bracket.
Muted clicks marked each turn of the key; and moments that followed were fascination incarnate while stately tick
tocks measured passing time, and a brass-weighted pendulum swung to and fro with measured tread.
When the key refused to continue turning, it was replaced on its bracket and I closed the case. Holding tightly
to Miss Jones' outstretched hand I descended shakily to the floor.
A parade of mental pictures still brings into sharp focus uncluttered years when life centered around a one-room
rural school and our family farm. I still recall the delight my new assignment brought; although, in an age of
electric timepieces, some might consider it a chore.
Winding the clock became my responsibility when school convened in September. I was nine the following month, more
mature and a grade farther advanced. In years to come I lost count of how many times the clock was wound; but it
gave me a good feeling to know it was my fingers that provided momentum to something important.
Its steady ticking seemed to shout fervent thanks for another day of life; and for a long time I was wont to indulge
in reverie during periods originally set aside for fruitful studying, listening intently to the clock’s cadenza.
Dreamy eyes would peer surreptitiously over an upright, opened book from which, supposedly, I was learning rudiments
of arithmetic. It didn't occur to me then that somewhere in a hazy future the clock would know only continued silence.
Whenever we returned from vacations it was my job to lure the timepiece back to life. With its spring once more
tightly wound, and hands set to coincide with the teacher's watch, I would replace the key on its hook, start the
pendulum swinging, and listen with immense satisfaction while closing the case.
I learned many other things in the confines of that one-room school. Each year it was possible to review previous
grades while listening to daily recitations. I even had a preview of studies that were to come.
It was a mental game, but correct answers often came to mind following quiz questions. By the time eight grades
were completed, I reviewed previous lessons several times, fixing facts in mind by a process of repetition.
Necessity required us to learn concentration. In a school such as ours it would have been impossible to work in
separate, soundproofed areas, for it seemed that someone was in motion at all times. Classes passed frequently
while the water cooler received numerous visits each hour, especially during warm weather. Replenishing the supply
from an outdoor pump and bringing in extra wood in season kept monitors busy several times each day.
Traveling to and from outdoor restrooms created endless activity. Participants wrote names or initials on a designated
blackboard space before scurrying outside. Usually someone was waiting expectantly for a truant's return; and competition
was keen especially when mild weather beckoned.
For all its confusion the classroom was orderly. Pupils learned to move quietly, with shouting reserved for recess
after school. Anyone accustomed to a pin-dropping atmosphere would have thought school pandemonium; but we learned
to concentrate even when countless distractions crowded in from every side.
Rural school experience eventually came to a reluctant close with eighth grade graduation. Four of us were presented
with certificates one evening during an appropriate ceremony. It was a glorious time punctuated with the sadness
of farewell.
My family later moved to another part of the state and it was decades before I was in the area again. Like a homing
pigeon, return was inevitable.
I was amazed at changes; but the school building looked much as it had many years before, only a little more settled
into earth that bore its foundation.
It was an autumn day when my automobile bumped to a stop near the entry door. Goldenrod grew in profusion over
much of what had been the play area where we once ran for the sheer joy of being in motion. A battered door was
locked, and windows were boarded.
Outdoor toilets had vanished as though spirited away by Halloween hobgoblins, and grass obliterated places where
they once stood. Long erased were beaten paths that led to weathered doors.
Two-holers were used frequently in all types of weather, but dallying in a frigid atmosphere was a gross impossibility,
with necessary business conducted in record time.
Permission to enter the neglected structure was given by a caretaker who lived nearby; and the first thing I looked
for past an aging entry hall was the old clock. In a shadowy interior it still clung to the same wall, its hands
pointing to 10:16 although there was no way of knowing whether time represented morning or evening.
Dilapidated desks, with seats in an upright position, looked much the same as when I attended years before. Initial-carved
and scarred tops prompted latent memories, but it was a struggle to remember everyone who once shared seating with
me.
Small desks in front graduated to large desks in the rear; and I noted where mine had been at various states of
development.
Even the recitation bench in front of the teacher's desk was there, although it sagged noticeably in one corner.
Rusted and forlorn looking, the old stove still occupied a central position. I recalled its open door when chunks
of oak and maple were fed into a blazing interior. It heated the room haphazardly in zero weather, roasting those
who sat nearby while valiantly fighting chill from pupils on the outer perimeter.
On the way outside, the entrance hall reminded of times we pushed lunch pails on a now-sagging shelf. It wasn’t
difficult to visualize hooks filled with outer garments and assorted boots thrown helter-skelter on a bare wood
floor.
No longer was the bell on its perch over the front door. It had been stolen years before, with its present whereabouts
unknown. I missed its presence; for many times it had summoned us across fertile farmlands, beginning with a hesitant
ding dong, rising in crescendo to peal an increasingly vibrant message over the area. After numerous tugs, its
momentum slowed until, with a final ding, it retreated into silence. Hurrying or dallying pupils knew it was 8:30,
with school scheduled to convene in half an hour when a final bell was rung.
A dusty road crawled past the school in early years, but it is now a concrete highway alive with automobiles and
trucks. Horse-drawn vehicles, common in my formative years, are no longer seen today. Pupils of the area ride to
a consolidated school in county-operated busses.
I thought of the Hoosier poet, James Whitcomb Riley, and two lines from one of his poems: “Still sits a schoolhouse
by the road, a ragged beggar sunning.”
What is left of the old school might be considered a mendicant; but it wasn’t one when I first knew its room of
learning. It asked for little but gave unstintingly. Every book of its meager library became part of my early years.
Teachers didn't have degrees, but they ladled understanding with a lavish hand. We may have learned by attrition,
but many went on to attend schools of higher learning with little or no difficulty. Some became important leaders
in their chosen fields.
One question is still unanswered in my mind. I thought of it the day I was prompted to revisit the old building.
Did the school clock stop for a better way of life?
If you have questions or comments about this Web page or site, e-mail: mary@vanmeer.com
© 2002 Leo VanMeer
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