Tag: school

Waiting For the Bus in a Snow Cave

brendast

High winds, bitter cold, and swirling snow greeted us that morning as we stepped out the back door and began the walk to the bus stop at the end of our long driveway.

It was clear the walk was going to be rough. The high winds made it hard to keep our footing. 

We could tell there was a lot of snow in the driveway from the house. But our house and Nellie’s were side by side, so it wasn’t until we rounded her house that we got the full effect of it. 

The driveway was bordered on either side by wire farm fencing. It was full of snow to the tops of the fence posts, captured there by the fences themselves. 

The snow depth was almost as high as I was tall at eight years old.

In sharp contrast, the fields on either side of  the lane were windswept. 

To get to the bus stop, we had to climb up on top of the snow which, thankfully, had an icy crust strong enough to support us without breaking through.  

We could hear the wind as it skittered snow in waves across the frozen fields and the empty ribbon of highway. 

We were FREEZING by the time we got to the bus stop, the wind in our faces all the way, tiny stinging projectiles of snow assaulting every bit of our exposed skin. 

That’s when we noticed the storm had formed a snow cave in the ditch by the highway. 

The cave was big enough for us to fit inside if we crouched down. 

We ducked inside it and realized that it blocked most of the wind. It didn’t make it any warmer, but it was a relief to get out of the wind. 

Monty was a foot taller than me. He was able to see over the  tops of the drifts, so he positioned himself by the mouth of the cave so he could pop his head out occasionally and see if the bus was coming. 

Missing the bus meant missing a day of school. And neither of us wanted to try to explain that to Mom. 

After waiting about 15 minutes, the bus finally came. 

I have sometimes wondered what the bus driver thought when he saw two children suddenly pop up out of the ditch as he approached. He wouldn’t have been able to see the snow cave because the opening was facing away from the road. 

We scrambled onto the bus and were relieved to finally be inside where it was warm and out of the weather.  

On returning from school that afternoon, the wind had calmed down some, but we still had that long walk home. 

This time, we thought it might be easier walking through the field, so we jumped over the fence and walked home through the field. 

Since there was no gate on the side of the field where it bordered our house, we had to climb the wire fence when we got home. That wasn’t easy to do with frozen hands and bulky snow boots. 

The drive remained blocked for several days, so we had to repeat that walk to and from the bus daily. 

It was hard for Dad, too. Since the driveway was blocked, he had to park the car by the highway and walk home. It might have been harder for him, though, because he had to walk to the car and home again in the dark.

After Mr. Parkinson, the farmer who farmed the ground for Nellie, dug his own long drive out, he finally was able to clear our driveway. 

Many years have passed since then, and I have lived through a lot of harsh Illinois winters. But I have never seen another driveway fill completely to the tops of the fence posts or form a crust so hard we could walk on it without breaking through.

And I have certainly never waited for a school bus in a snow cave again.

Listening to the Little Kids Read

brendast

When I was in second grade, Mrs. Clawson asked me to help the younger children learn to read.

She gave me a copy of the reader they were using and told me which story they were working on. Since it was the same reader I had used the year before, I already knew the stories.

The desks were lined up in neat rows, all facing the blackboard.

I would pull a little chair up beside a student’s desk and listen while they read out loud. When a child came to a word they didn’t know, I encouraged them to sound it out. If that didn’t help, I would tell them the word.

There was something satisfying, even at the age of seven, about being able to help.

I really enjoyed it — and I was proud that Mrs. Clawson trusted me to do it.

Of course, I had my own work to do, but if I finished early and she needed someone to listen to the first graders read, she would ask if I would like to help. I always did.

The next year, when I started third grade, I moved to a different classroom. Even then, there were times when Mrs. Clawson asked my new teacher, Miss Nesbitt, if I could come back and listen to her students read.

I didn’t know it at the time, but I suppose that was my first experience as a tutor.

Mom vs the School Superintendent

brendast

The superintendent said, “No.”

Mom said, “Want to bet?”

In the 1950s, our school district, like so many others, had a strict dress code. Girls were required to wear dresses to school. No exceptions.

I liked wearing dresses, so that was fine — at least until winter came.

The school bus would not drive down our long driveway, so Monty and I had to walk out to the highway and wait for it to pick us up.

We had to make sure we got there first. If we missed the bus, we missed a day of school. We had only one car, and Dad took it to work.

Sometimes the wait stretched to fifteen or twenty minutes if the roads were icy or snowy and the bus was delayed.

In the worst part of winter, there was often severe cold and deep snow. One time, the wind was so fierce that Monty and I ducked into a snow cave that had formed along the drift just to get out of the wind.

Another time, the snow completely filled our driveway to the tops of the fence posts. Then a thick crust formed on top, and we had to walk across it to reach the highway.

I had several pairs of corduroy slacks, so Mom started putting them on me under my dress, with instructions to take them off and leave them with my coat and boots when I got to school.

The first day I wore them, Mrs. Clawson quietly and gently told me it was against the rules and that I shouldn’t do it again.

I told Mom when I got home that afternoon.

She didn’t say much to me about it, but she called the district superintendent. She explained that I would continue wearing slacks to school, but that I would remove them once I arrived in order to comply with school rules.

He didn’t like that at all.

He told her that once I stepped onto the school bus, school rules applied — and that I had to follow them.

Mom didn’t think so.

She explained about our walk to the highway, the long waits in the cold, and the winter weather. Then she told him that I would continue wearing slacks to school — whether he liked it or not.

I’m sure he didn’t like it.

But no one ever told me I couldn’t wear them again.

I continued wearing them until the weather warmed up, and I kept doing so as long as we lived there.

Mom didn’t brook any nonsense when it came to her kids. She didn’t start fights, but she always finished them.

The Cat at the Door

brendast

Our school scheduled a PTA meeting one cold and snowy winter night. My whole family would be attending, since Monty and I were now in the same school.

When we moved to Aledo, Monty and I began attending Frew School, a three-room country school not far from our house. In those days, before school districts consolidated and country schools disappeared, it was common to have several small country schools scattered throughout a district for farm families.

As an agricultural community, there were a lot of farm kids.

Mom helped us kids get ready while she and Dad were doing the same. They were both all dressed up — Dad in a sport coat and dress slacks, and Mom in a dress and high heels. Us kids wore clean school clothes.

Once Mom was satisfied that we were scrubbed, properly dressed, and didn’t have a hair out of place, it was time to leave.

There was about a foot of snow on the ground that night. Dad had scooped a path to the car earlier, since we didn’t have a garage.

He turned the outside light on as he went out ahead of us to warm up the car. Monty and I followed a few minutes later to give it time to warm.

The three of us were sitting in the car waiting for Mom to come out. When she did, she leaned over to pet the cat who was eating out of its bowl.

The “cat” looked up and hissed.

It wasn’t a cat. It was a possum.

It turned to look at her — and that’s when she realized two beady eyes were staring at her, attached to a face with a long pointed nose and rows of sharp teeth.

POSSUM! And the cat was nowhere to be found.

She went flying across the yard — in high heels — completely ignoring the path Dad had so thoughtfully dug, and made a new path of her own to the car.

By this time, Dad, Monty, and I were laughing, watching her mad rush to the car. Because the snow was deep and had a light crust on top, she had to lift her feet high with every step. It was a sight to see, for sure.

Breathless, she opened the car door and scrambled in, slamming it hard behind her.

We were still laughing. I’m not sure she appreciated it. She didn’t say much about it other than to tell us what happened. We could tell it really scared her.

Over the years, we brought this memory up occasionally. Time softened her sense of humor, and she could relate the story with a twinkle in her eye. She forgave us for laughing at her.

Funny thing is — we didn’t even own a cat. It belonged to the farm.

Frew School

brendast

I remember the day Mom registered me for school clearly.

I stood behind her while she talked with my teacher, Mrs. Clawson. After Mom left, Mrs. Clawson showed me into the classroom and gave me an empty desk.

The school had three classrooms and six grades, so there were two grades in each one. Mrs. Clawson taught first and second grade. Miss Nesbitt taught third and fourth grades. Mrs. Dahl taught fifth and sixth grades. Each classroom had its own area for us to hang our coats and store our boots.

The classrooms were all lined up in a row on the east side of the building. My classroom was the first one inside the front door, then the middle grades, and finally the upper grades.

The other side of the building housed the bathrooms, the lunchroom, and the kitchen.

Sometimes the tables and chairs would be folded up, giving us an open space for activities. I especially remember the times when the record player came out. Mrs. Johnston visited once a week to teach music, and I think that may have been when we learned the bunny hop. I can still picture us hopping around the room in a circle with our hands on each other’s shoulders as the music played.

I settled quickly into the new school. I liked my teacher and the other kids. There were swings on the playground, and I especially liked playing hopscotch on the cement entrance to the school with the other girls during recess.

Dad found a new job right away. He said he was a Fuller Brush Man. I didn’t know what he did at first. He said he went door-to-door selling things. He showed me the case he carried with him and all the things inside it. Some of them were pretty interesting.

We lived down a long driveway. Across the highway was another long driveway with a farm at the end. That is where my friend JoAnn lived.

We stayed there longer than we had in Galva, and before long it felt like home.

Moving Again: From Galva to Aledo

brendast

We stayed in Galva through Christmas of 1958. I remember the colored lights, and Mom letting me help put tinsel on the tree for the first time.

I turned seven a month later. Soon after that, it was time to move again.

I liked living in Galva a lot. It was different from the farm in a lot of ways.

City streets instead of gravel roads.

Walking to school. I loved school — especially learning to read. 

I had school friends to play with. Some lived close enough that I could walk to their houses after school.

Dad sold his milk trucks, and soon we were on our way. 

 We moved west again, this time just east of Aledo along Illinois Route 17. 

Our new home sat halfway between our old farm near Viola and where Mom had grown up, northwest of Aledo in Millersburg.

It is the same general area I had always lived in, except for the nine months or so we lived in Galva.

As much as I liked living in town, I was also glad to be back on the farm, even if it wasn’t the same farm. This time, Dad wasn’t farming. We moved into a tenant house next door to Nellie Briggs, the lady who owned the farm. Someone else farmed the land for her. 

Our little tenant house was much smaller than the stately white main house, but it was cute and very well kept. It had only two bedrooms, but we made it work with our bunk beds.

There was one thing about this house that worried me, though. The heat came from pipes in the walls, which I wasn’t used to. I thought the heat meant it could catch on fire, but Mom assured me it was safe. She said the house was heated by a system of water pipes in the walls. It was warmed by the coal furnace in the basement.

Just in case, though, I always had a backup plan — in case we ever did have a fire. I would smash the window next to my bed with Jocko, my teddy bear.

Fortunately, that plan was never needed. 

Not long after we moved into the tenant house near Aledo, Mom took me to register at Frew School.

Autumn Leaves and Training Wheels

brendast

Leaves crunched under my feet. The tall oak trees surrounding our school were alive with color as the blue sky and late afternoon sun filtered through them. The crisp autumn air held the faint scent of burning leaves somewhere in the neighborhood.

I was six years old, and the sheer beauty of the day felt like it was wrapped around me.

We had moved into town a few months earlier. Our house and the school were only a block apart, both along the highway that ran through town.

My friend, Susie, and I had agreed to meet back at school that day. She had received a new bike with training wheels for her birthday, and she told me she would teach me to ride it. But first, we had to go home and ask our mothers if it was okay.

Mom gave me permission, but reminded me to stop, look, and listen before crossing the street—and not to cross the highway under any circumstances.

Susie met me at the school a short time later, and that’s how I learned to ride a bike.

Susie rode it first, showing me what to do.

Soon it was my turn.

At first, I just sat on the bike. Then I slowly started pedaling. It wasn’t quite as easy as it had looked when Susie rode it. The handlebars wobbled, and I felt a flicker of frustration.

But once the wheels began to move and I found the rhythm of it, the wobble settled. By the time we reached the end of the block, I was more proud than frustrated.

Susie kept pace alongside me to the other end of the block. I turned the bike around, and she rode it back while I kept pace with her.

We continued in this way for a while, until the sun got lower in the sky and we knew it was time to go home.

By then, I was pretty sure I wanted a little bike with training wheels of my own.

I crossed the street toward home, the sound of leaves still crunching under my shoes, carrying the whole golden afternoon with me.

Nap Rugs and Sugar Plum Fairies

brendast

Whenever I hear “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies,” I am six years old again, lying on a nap rug in my first grade classroom—warm and safe.

Kindergarten wasn’t required back then, so first grade was my first real taste of school—and I loved it.

After lunch, my teacher — Mrs. Quanstrom — told us to get out our nap rugs and lie down. She turned off the lights, but the room never got completely dark. The tall classroom windows still let in the afternoon light, filtered through the oak trees that lined that side of the school.

After turning off the lights, she put a record on the classroom player. I don’t remember all of the songs she played, but “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies” was my favorite.

The room was very quiet except for the music. We could take a nap if we wanted to, but I was always too interested in listening.

The rug beneath me was soft. Mom knew why the teacher asked us to bring one, so she chose a rug she knew would be comfortable to lie on.

I don’t remember ever falling asleep. I was too busy listening—to the music, to the quiet, to the feeling of being exactly where I belonged.

I didn’t always keep my eyes closed, but I did most of the time. And when “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies” played, I could see them in my imagination.

The fairies were small and light, and they danced and twirled in the air above me.

Even now, when I hear that music, I am six years old again, lying on that soft rug in a classroom washed in afternoon light.

I am still lying on that rug.

And I can still see the fairies.

No, I never did fall asleep during nap time.

I was already dreaming.

A Little Dab Will Do

brendast

In the 1950s, Brylcreem was as common in Midwestern households as toothpaste.

One morning while Mom was getting Monty ready for school, she was combing his hair and absent-mindedly reached for the Brylcreem. She started distributing it through his hair and realized something was different — it was thick and white and did not blend into his hair. 

Glancing at the tube she held in her hand, she discovered she had rubbed toothpaste through his hair.

What to do? The bus would be there any minute. 

I was watching them from across the kitchen. She looked at me, shrugged, and quickly washed his hair. 

In those days, we didn’t have running water. We also didn’t have hot water. What we did have was an old hand pump at the kitchen sink that only brought in cold water. Cold well water. 

Monty went to school with wet hair that morning. I expect that was the only time in his life he had his hair washed with shampoo and cold water. Brrr. 

Brylcreem, a little dab’ll do ya — that is what the television commercials said. That morning, a little dab definitely did not do. 

Bluebells in Spring

brendast

Bluebells — one of my favorite signs of spring — usually arrived sometime in April, along with gentle breezes and a general thawing of the land.

I lived just three blocks from school, so I walked there and back each day. There was a patch of bluebells I passed twice daily. They belonged to Mrs. Joseph — an elderly neighbor — but she said she didn’t mind if I picked a few.

I was careful not to take too many, so we both could enjoy watching them grow. Mostly, I stopped to smell them — once or twice every day for as long as they bloomed — but sometimes I gathered a small bouquet for Mom. They smelled so good.

A friend showed me how to pluck a blossom from the stem, place the stem end in my mouth, and draw out what I can only assume was nectar. What a sweet surprise.

One year, I made May baskets from construction paper and filled them with small bouquets of bluebells. I left one for Mrs. Joseph, one for Mom’s best friend Marion who lived next door, and one for Mom — and felt very grown up doing it.

There were other flowers in the neighborhood, of course — many in our own yard, as Dad was an avid gardener — but nothing was ever quite so sweet as those first bluebells in spring.