The Ruby Chronicles (#9)

Editor Note:  The Ruby Chronicles essays come to me courtesy of Sid Stivland. 

Country School Teacher 

Did we have colder weather and more snow years ago?  I think so.

The rural teachers did their own janitor work – made the fire – often carried in wood and coal, swept the floors, shoveled snow off the steps and out of the outhouses. One morning when I came to school after a heavy snowfall and much drifting, I found a four foot drift right in front of the outside door.  And the snow shovel was inside!  Luckily, the family with whom I was staying lived less than half a mile from school.  I trudged back through the deep snow and borrowed Mr. Barsness’ shovel.  I had a good fire going and the outhouses shoveled out by the time the pupils arrived.

What a luxury the last year I taught in Pope County – I had an oil burner jacked stove.  It was great to come to a warm school room and be able to begin with school work immediately.  Yes, and we had the convenience of electricity then, also.  No more did I have to read by the kerosene lamp hung on a bracket on the wall.  

Did teachers strike for higher wages?  Oh, no!  This was Depression years.  My first wages were forty dollars per month.  The school year was eight months.

Because all homes did not have telephones, schools were not closed for bad weather.  In 1936 when the thermometer registered forty degrees below zero one morning, Ralph Moe, people with whom I stayed, took me by horse and sleigh to school.  He made the second mile trip at 9 o’clock when he took his son, Leslie, to school. Three youngsters who lived south of school, the Albert Olsons, walked.  There were no frost bites as they were so warmly dressed.

There was no hot lunch program.  However, pupils could bring hot chocolate or vegetables in a little glass jar to set in a water pan on the stove in the mid-morning.  By noon the food was hot and the tantalizing odors made us all hungry.

The last year I taught, I had one of my most difficult walks to school one morning.  The thermometer read twenty below zero.  Two cars stood in our garage; neither would start.  Dad’s car, a 1937 Chev – “a good starter” had an appointment at the garage that day and Iver’s Plymouth, not so dependable, would not start although it had started at midnight.  Iver was in the service.

Because of my dad’s health he could not take me by horse and sleigh.  I bundled up well and started hiking the two miles over the fields through the deep snow.  One time I sank into deep snow up to my waist.  For a fleeting moment I thought, “Can I make it?”  Fortunately I was young and strong and walked as fast as I could and arrived at school before any of the pupils came.  I felt doubly blessed to have the oil burner.  

Preparing for the large evening annual program was a lot of work but much fun.  Humorous skits and dialogues brought many laughs.  A lunch consisting of a sandwich and a cupcake in a paper sack sold for fifteen cents.  Coffee was cooked on a kerosene stove or at the neighbor’s.  Later in the evening the young folks pushed the desks aside and played games like “Four in a boat” and “Virginia kneel”. On the last day of school we picnicked in the school yard or at a nearby creek. (Since we didn’t have electricity or an oil burner in my home until later, using lamps and heating with wood and coal was not so difficult.)

Despite the hardships, teaching in the one-room rural school was rewarding.  The children respected their teacher and their parents.

Ruby Johnson Anderson