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“At one time did you teach in a one-room, rural school?” someone asked me recently.
“A long time ago,” I readily admitted; “during the beginning of my teaching career.”
“Didn’t you graduate from college with a four-year teaching degree?” my questioner persisted. “Why didn’t you
have a high school teaching position?”
“I graduated from college in June 1931, while the 1930s Depression was in progress. With millions of workers unemployed,
prospects for a teaching contract appeared doubtful, even nonexistent.”
I went on to explain that submitting numerous applications had produced no results. When autumn approached, and
no job offers materialized, the future seemed bleak indeed. Just when I had given up all hope of teaching that
year, a local township school board offered me a nine-month contract to replace a teacher who had suffered a grievous
accident and still remained unable to fulfill her teaching duties.
I hesitated only momentarily, concerned whether I could do the job. Ninety-five dollars a month, while meager,
meant living expense money, more than many individuals had at that time. I heard of people who worked a ten-hour
day for one dollar.
The first day of school, I unlocked the entrance door, and waited to ring the bell a half hour before school was
scheduled to begin.
While I waited for the eight-thirty time to arrive, a young man of perhaps ten or eleven opened the door.
“I’m Michael Jacks, your bell ringer monitor,” he informed me.
“Welcome aboard,” I assured him.
While waiting expectantly for the bell to ring, I made my way to the teacher’s desk, sat in the swivel chair, and
began rummaging in desk drawers. To my surprised delight, I discovered a record book containing names and class
standings of last year’s pupils.
Not long after the first bell rang, pupils began arriving, perhaps curious about their new teacher. When the final
bell rang at nine o’clock, forty-five eager faces occupied ancient, initial-scarred desks.
Summoning courage I did not feel, I introduced myself, even writing my name on a convenient blackboard space.
“Today we will organize grade by grade,” I told them briskly. “Suppose we start with the new eighth graders, Douglas
Dayton and Dorothy Schmidt.”
The two eighth graders approached my desk expectantly and I gave each of them worn and tattered books from the
shelf back of my desk.
“Welcome to Sterling Township eighth grade,” I told them; and they returned to their respective desks.
“Examine your texts carefully,” I instructed. “Tomorrow, during class schedule, I will make assignments.”
Grade by grade I followed the same procedure. Perhaps some pupils may have wondered how I knew names and class
standings.
During morning recess, I dismissed the group, smiling at their exuberance, remembering my boyhood rural school
recesses.
When the noon hour arrived, everyone went straightway to the closet lunch shelf. Soon all were busily eating.
I got out my sack lunch and joined them.
Before the afternoon recess, I came to the kindergarten class. Only one pupil answered my call. She had a bright
red ribbon in her auburn hair. Standing by my desk, she looked at me brightly. “My name is Janice Schmidt,” she
told me. “I know my ABCs!”
I admired her hair ribbon, and she quickly replied, “Mother has one for each school day.”
“We will get along just fine,” I told her.
After Janice returned to her desk, I called the group to order. “You have done very well today,” and dismissed
the group early.
The following day, the current class schedule left little time for either recitation or assignment, and the problem
weighed heavily on me, with no apparent solution in sight. The next day, and for some time, I sought an answer.
One night, my subconscious thoughts revealed a simple solution.
I returned to school early and rearranged the class schedules. Hearing classes on alternate days seemed a relatively
simple solution. The revised schedule provided sufficient time for recitation, assignment, and testing.
Soon another problem surfaced. Raised hands indicated someone needed to visit one of the outdoor privies. How
could I give permission without showing favoritism?
Douglas, the bell ringer monitor, helped me solve the permission problem. He pointed out that their previous teacher
used the honor system. Each pupil wrote initials on a designated blackboard space, then left. The system was
a success.
Sterling Township Rural School underwent still other changes. Each fall and spring afternoon, weather permitting,
upper grades made nature study field trips, after the lower three grades were excused for the day. We locked the
schoolhouse door, and set off to study nature firsthand. We would hike across fields, and along the creek and
river banks, studying animal tracks and growing flower plants, as well as other aspects of the natural world.
Years later, when I returned to visit with former pupils, now married with children attending school, they still
reminisced about how enjoyable the nature study walks were.
Report cards, a somewhat stickier problem, I solved by arranging conference time with each pupil to discuss progress
and how to provide further improvement.
Along with report cards, pupils carried home a typewritten report of each pupil’s progress, something most parents
came to expect and appreciate.
The school building became a social center, with visiting parents welcome at all times. Pupil-sponsored programs,
especially at Christmas time, were well attended by interested parents.
I still fondly recall the season a pupil committee sponsored a Christmas for a needy family with infants. Fathers,
away at the time while seeking employment, missed the Christmas spirit pupils portrayed.
The group of students provided a four-foot tree with handmade trimmings. They also assembled cans of fruits and
vegetables, donated by caring parents, along with a seven-pound shoulder ham purchased from a local mom-and-pop
general store at five cents a pound, which was marked down to three by an understanding merchant.
I still recall the returning pupils, dragging an empty sleigh, chattering about their experience when they helped
someone who otherwise might not have had a merry Christmas season. During Depression days, few charitable organizations
provided Christmas cheer for needy families.
Throughout the year, my students and I worked together like one large and happy family. During recess periods,
sometimes I left my desk to umpire baseball games. When World War I virtually eliminated Depression years, I reluctantly
left to teach in a nearby high school for $160 month, a substantial pay increase over what I had been earning.
I still fondly remember two of many instances that made my rural school teaching successful and enjoyable.
During a seventh-grade recitation period, Louis Schrader asked me to explain how radio, a recent innovation, operated.
While he waited expectantly, I provided a blackboard illustration, showing a transmission tower with radio waves
emanating to his outside antenna and into a radio receiver. Louis shook his head, amazed. “Aw, Teacher,” he exclaimed,
“you don’t really believe that, do you?!”
Years later, while teaching in another state, I received a wedding invitation from Janice Schmidt, and a year later
a first-born son announcement. Even then I felt sure she, one day, would have a daughter with brightly-colored
ribbons in her auburn hair.
When I look back after more than seventy years (I’m now 94), no other teaching experience, during later years,
meant more or was as challenging as the three years I once spent teaching in a one-room rural school.
If you have questions or comments about this Web page or site, e-mail: mary@vanmeer.com
© 2002 Leo VanMeer
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