I Am A — Teacher?

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On the top of my bookshelf in my room there is an old bronze hand bell. It is the bell that I rang the morning I started my teaching career in 1946. It represents a lot of memories, good memories.

It was late October. I had taken the bus to Cando where I was met by a farmer who lived next door to the school. Apparently someone knew I was coming. There was snow on the ground so our transportation was a cutter pulled by a team of matched blacks who liked to run, and run they did. In a very short time we were at the school. With a flourish, the farmer pulled up in front of the teacherage and helped me unload my few possessions. Then with a cheery wave of his hand, he called “Goodbye and good luck!” I hollered after him, “Where’s the key?” Above the horse noises the answer came back, “There ain’t any.” I opened the door and went in to survey my new home—two rooms, bed and dresser in one; stove, table, two chairs and a cupboard in the other. There was a fire in the stove. At least the place was warm. I unpacked the few groceries I had, took out a slice of bread and made myself a peanut butter sandwich. This culinary delight was to become a staple in my diet in the months to come. As I slowly munched my sandwich, I contemplated my future and wondered what tomorrow would bring. Well, I had made my bed, now I had to lie in it. The bed didn’t look too good with its lumpy mattress and creaky springs. For better or worse, it was my bed.

In the years that followed I met many students. I enjoyed working with all of them. I learned from each one. But as I think back, the student who stands out in my memory is the young girl I met the next day, the day I became a teacher.

Like everyone else at the time, I had started my teaching career by going to Normal School in Saskatoon. We had just got nicely started on our studies when about 100 of us were told that we had been picked to go out teaching because of the tremendous shortage of teachers that existed at the time. We became known as the “six week wonders.” They told us we had demonstrated “a high degree of maturity.” We wondered, others wondered. To prove their sincerity, they gave us a 24T teaching certificate. This certificate meant that we were legal, but competence was another matter. Clutching our certificates, we charged forth to teach the children, the future of our society. Those poor, deprived children who didn’t have a teacher. Besides which we were going to get paid—$80 per month. It was comforting to know that we were considered better than nothing.

I was sent (we didn’t have a choice) to a one-room school in the rural part of the Biggar Larger School Unit. I was told that I would have 22 students in grades 1 to 8 and live in the teacherage, for which I had to do light janitorial duties like sweeping, dusting and lighting the fires when it got cold.

There I was, a town kid, just barely out of high school, taking charge of a school in rural Saskatchewan. I knew about as much about teaching as I did about living in a rural setting, with no electricity, no running water and no indoor toilets, and worst of all, no mother to cook, to cheer me on or wipe away my tears.

I spent a restless night on that lumpy bed and in the early morning I went to see “my school.” I lit the fire in the pot-bellied stove and waited for the students to arrive. I had absolutely no idea what was going to happen. The students filed in and huddled at the back of the room. They looked ready to take off. They looked at me. I looked at them. There was no sound. We were all waiting.

One of the older students (I later learned her name was Rose) stepped out from the group. With a somewhat despairing look at me, she took charge. Rose made sure that the outdoor clothing from the younger children was removed and hung up. Then she suggested that I get started. It was now about 9 o’clock so I rang the bell on my desk—far too loudly. Nobody moved. I rang the bell again. But still no one moved. I was getting desperate. I told them to take their seats but no one moved. Once more, Rose took charge and directed them to the seats they should use. The younger ones went to the smaller desks on the right, the older ones to the larger desks on the left. She then pointed to the books located on the sideboard. I picked them up and handed them to her. She handed them out. She seemed to know which student got which book. Then she looked at me with a look that seemed to say; “Now you do your thing.” That would have been a good idea if I knew what my thing was. Rose told the older ones to start reading their books so I could have time to start the younger ones with their reading. That was when I learned that teaching multiple grades at the same time meant careful planning with a lot of “meaningful” seatwork ready.

Somehow we got through that first day with a lot of play activities and coaching from Rose. The next day the superintendent arrived and I learned those really important things like filling out the attendance register, when and where to file reports and how to take inventories.

We had a pretty good year—our ball team won a few games, the Christmas Concert was acceptable, the kids even learned a bit about reading, writing and arithmetic. I remember an impressive list of birds that the students had sighted, identified and recorded. The accuracy and detail they included in their drawings was exceptional. This was the year I decided to make education my career, but if it hadn’t been for Rose, I don’t think I could have made it through the year. For this I am eternally thankful to her because teaching was a very good experience.

A few years ago when we were living in Battleford, an attractive, mature woman came to our door and asked if I was the Mr. Funk who had taught at Rowland Hill School many years ago. I nodded my head and she smiled. I just knew she had to be Rose. We had a long visit, remembering. I thanked her for getting my teaching career off to a good start. I showed her the bell. She looked at it and said, “So that’s where it went. We wondered who had taken it. We blamed Peter.” She told me her father had made her quit school the next year, grade eight, because “schooling was for boys and anyway she was needed at home.”

That day was the beginning of 23 years of wonderful involvement with many students.

Jack Funk is a retired school teacher living with the memories of times gone by. He has written some of these memories down and would like to share them with you.