Looking Back by Paul Assink: Chapter 8: One Room Schoolhouse

NORWAY TOWNSHIP NO. 3

Front row: John “Red” Larson, Elmer Christians, Percy Roskamp, Daryl Schultz, Leonard Davids,
Arlene SchultzSecond row: Orville Hoveland, John Davids, Nettie Christians, Virginia Larson,
Russell Hoveland, Duane Johnson,Audrey Johnson. The little girl in the flowered dress
and the boy next to her are foster childrentaken in by the Christians family.
Third row: Gladys Roskamp, Kenny Johnson, Della Davids, Marion Veldhouse,
Henrietta Christians, Pearl Veldhouse, Joe Verbrugge, and Hank Christians

After moving to Wright County, my new school was Norway Township No. 3, just three quarters of a mile to the west of our house. It was a newer building, slightly larger than my old school, and had, in addition to the main school room, two little rooms off to the side of the main entrance way as well as a basement which contained a coal-fueled, hot air furnace and some space to play in during the cold winter months.

Harold would finish out the eighth grade here and Ruth would continue in the second grade.

It was determined immediately upon entering that I, a first grader, should be demoted to Kindergarten. No big deal as far as I was concerned, but my mother, as I recall, was rather incensed about that and thought it most unwarranted. The reasoning to support this move, however, was quite compelling. It was not that I was academically unfit for first grade; but simply that there were two students already in the Kindergarten class, both a bit older than I, and there were no students in first grade. With but one teacher attempting to teach all grade levels, clearly, the fewer classes she had to teach the easier and, perhaps, better her job would be.

Our teacher was Miss Johanna Anfinson, of Norwegian descent I learned later. I remember her as a typical spinster teacher who wore glasses, her hair in a bun, and long calico dresses.

And she was strict. Very shortly after our arrival at the school she demonstrated her concern for upholding the purity of the language. I don't know what eighth grader Duane Johnson said, but I do know it invoked her fierce wrath and indignation. She hauled him forcibly into the cloak room which also served as the washroom, grasped the bar of soap and thrust it into his mouth to wash out all the filth that apparently had accumulated there. Duane needed no repeat of this performance by Miss Anfinson; he henceforth spoke with the tongues of angels.

My two classmates, Bob Larson and Bernard Roskamp, received me with all the appreciation of an intruder from an alien planet.

I was rejected and despised for a number of days. Then, gradually, warily, they began to speak to me--in lies. In a conversation at recess time in the roadside ditch next to the school ground, they asked me whether I saw the plane that flew over Sunday afternoon. Of course, I saw the plane. Every one saw airplanes that would fly over. If one was heard droning in the sky overhead, everyone, without exception, would run outside and gaze at it and watch it until it faded out of sight and sound. "Yes, I saw the airplane."

"We were in it," Bob claimed.

"Really?"

"My big brother, Carl, was flying it," Bernard added.

Not accustomed to being lied to, I was duly impressed. When I got home that night I told everyone in my family that Bob and Bernard were in the airplane that flew over Sunday afternoon. I learned quickly that in this world trust is best not automatically offered to everyone.

While I soon became fully accepted by my classmates and even good friends with them, one other incident in that first year awakened me to the depravity which resides within our species. Bob Larson, as I learned later, had been pushed on the concrete steps outside the school door, resulting in a rupture for which he had to be hospitalized. Somehow, I was blamed for that accident. My parents received phone calls about it and they asked me why I did it. For some strange reason I didn't even know what they were talking about. I had not seen it happen and I apparently was not even aware that he had been injured until later. My protests of innocence, however, were apparently interpreted as lying in an effort to avoid the blame. I was troubled by it; I was being blamed and I felt powerless and confused by the whole affair. Fortunately, later, it came out that someone else had pushed him. So, I was completely exonerated and greatly relieved. But, what a messy world we lived in.

Country schools back then, as was true also of most farm homes in those days, were lacking in the basic utilities deemed essential to moderns, such as electric lights, running water and indoor plumbing.

Water was apparently brought in each day in a five or ten gallon container by the teacher. Kerosene lamps served for lighting on dark days, although in early 1941, the school, a year or two after the rest of our whole rural area, received the benefit of electric lights. Toilets, however, were little white outhouses, one for the boys and one for the girls, positioned near the far edge of the school ground. Students who needed to use those facilities while school was in session would have to hold up one finger for one function and two fingers for the other function. I wonder now why it was necessary to distinguish which function had to be dealt with. For some reason, students signaled for outhouse privileges much more frequently in the mild days of fall and spring than during the frigid days of winter. I, no less than most of my schoolmates, availed myself of these periodic breaks from the boredom of the school room.

One day in first grade it was bitter cold and I had to go "number two." But I had a problem: I was wearing overalls, the kind with the bib in front and the suspenders hooking over from the back; and I had a pullover sweater over that.

Now I had not at that stage in my life acquired the dexterity necessary--or perhaps it was the confidence--to remove the sweater over my head in order to unfasten the suspenders, permitting me to take down my pants and perform the necessary function. But I had to go and so I gave the two finger signal and received the permission. In the outhouse, however, I struggled and struggled to get the sweater off but could not manage it. Eventually, I returned to the schoolroom, mission unaccomplished, resolving to try to hold out until I got home.

The school day ended and my problem was becoming very urgent. But, instead of suffering the serious embarrassment of having to explain my predicament to Miss Johnson, I started the near mile walk for home. Nature, however, won out. About a quarter mile from home everything broke loose including some of the biggest tears I had ever bawled. Fortunately, Mom received me in my polluted state with sympathy and promised she would always put the overalls over the sweater from that time forward.

There were usually about 13 or 14 students in the school. Most classes had from one to three students, although some had none. The teacher, often a high school graduate who had received only a summer school of preparation before beginning her teaching, had to teach each of the six or seven grade levels and all the different subjects. Each class would come to the recitation bench in front of the teacher's desk and recite what they had been assigned to learn. In some cases it would be reading from the reader: "See Dick. See Dick run. Run, Dick, run." On other occasions that time would be spent at the blackboard doing arithmetic problems, or at our desks writing out spelling words. Since so many classes had to be fitted into the schedule, each class received only about ten minutes per hour of attention. Two things, however, compensated for this meager time allotment: first, with only two or three in the class, each student always got some individual attention; second, younger students would often learn ahead from listening in on the instruction to the older students.

Teachers varied in their personalities and teaching styles, but it seemed that we learned reasonably well from all of them.

Gladys Asbe, my third grade teacher, was very relaxed in her classroom management. Students did a lot of conferring and working together, to the point where recesses became a less distinctive break from the classroom activity. Lavonne Johnson, however, sought to maintain a quiet atmosphere. Leonard (Bob) Davids didn't always cooperate with her efforts and I remember on one occasion she became greatly annoyed and flailed away at him in an effort to instill some respect; but Bob would manage to duck and elude her blows, laughing as he did so. As a second grader I was awed by the bravery this fifth grader displayed in defying a teacher.

Beverly Larson--I think I had her in fourth grade--was my favorite. I liked her so well I often found reasons to stay in from recess so I could help her with something. Speaking of recesses, these were, as seems to be universally the case, the highlights of the day. We had a 15 minute one in the morning, an hour at lunch--except in the winter when it was a half hour--and a 10 minute recess in the afternoon. These were spent in various ways. There were no swings or other playground apparatus at Norway No. 3, so children played softball (see my chapter on "Kittenball"), passball, football, annie-I-over, pom-pom-pullaway, crack the whip, and field hockey which we called shinny. It must have been called shinny because kids would often get clobbered in the shins by an opposing player's stick in his efforts to hit the puck--usually a tin can. When Audrey Johnson had to go to the doctor and have stitches put in her leg, that sport was promptly discontinued. There were times too, when we sat around on the grass or in the ditch and just talked.

Winters found us in the basement for most of our recesses. One year Roger Johnson brought his boxing gloves to school and we all took our turns sparring off against one another. Now, Roger was a classy boxer. He danced gingerly on his feet, circled his opponent, sending out jabs with his right as he protected his bobbing head with his left. I knew no fancy moves like his, but, amazingly, when I put the gloves on and engaged him in a three rounder, I did manage, simply by charging in with both arms swinging, to get in a few good licks to redden his face a bit. The fact that Roger was two grades my senior made that accomplishment seem all the more impressive.

Sometimes in the winter there would be an ice pond in the field about a 100 yards to the east or in the ditch along the road running north.

It was in the east pond that Gladys Roskamp broke through the ice one day. I can still hear her piercing screams and see her splashing in the icy waters as she frantically struggled to avoid what I'm sure she thought was imminent death. Shortly, however, with the help of a couple of extended hands from school mates, she was able to get back on solid ice and escape that dire fate. Fortunately, the school furnace was adequate and the hot air which flowed upward through the large floor register above it would restore the shivering Gladys to comfort and would even dry her clothes.

One noon recess the skating was exceptionally delightful. The teacher, as was the custom, jingled a bell when the noon break was over, but, because the wind was from the wrong direction, we couldn't hear the bell. We did catch a glimpse of her outside the front door vigorously shaking some object in her hand, but we quickly looked the other way, kept our caps and ear muffs securely over our ears and proceeded to enjoy the longest noon break we had ever known. Kids, of course, are notably lacking in a sense of time, and an hour and a half can seem like only 30 minutes when everyone is having fun. Furthermore, we suspected that the teacher would not be totally unhappy with having us off her hands for an extended time on this occasion. We may have been right. Our only punishment was to lose the afternoon recess.

One of the highlights of the country school was the annual program it would give.

Besides the Christmas program which the parents would attend, there would often be a bigger community type event in which outside talent would sometimes participate and which would attract people from all over the community. It should be remembered, of course, that folks did not have the option in those days of sitting home watching professional quality entertainment on television or playing electronic games. A night out for some entertainment by local talent was preferable to playing checkers or reading a book by the kerosene lamp at home. The first such program I remember at Norway No. 3 was held either in my Kindergarten year or in first grade. There was a large crowd in the school and a general air of excitement, but what really impressed me and stirred my soul was Freddy and Carl Loeffler playing their guitars and singing "That Silver-haired Daddy of Mine." The splendid harmony of their voices and the sweet sentimentality of the lyrics enlisted me as a life-long lover of country music. I have often wondered since: Did that performance win me to country music as opposed to some other brand, or was it that occasion which simply brought out an innate fondness for it? I suspect the latter.

In the seventh grade Miss Samuelson decided to supplement the entertainment program with an old-fashioned box social.

The purpose of the box social, besides some good, wholesome fun, was to make money for the school. Young ladies in the community would each prepare a box of goodies to eat, wrap them creatively in colorful paper and other adornments and bring them into the school on the evening of the social. It was important to keep the identity of the box's owner from being revealed because after the program, an auctioneer would auction off the boxes to the highest bidders. Of course, any boyfriend of the girl who brought a box would know in advance which box was hers among the twenty or so boxes that might be entered. Unattached males, however, would also try to discover which box belonged to which girl, either to bid up the price on her boyfriend, or to win the right for themselves of eating with her from her box. Sometimes the bidding was truly in the dark, that is, no one knew who the box belonged to, and the excitement and suspense of discovering this was part of the drama of the whole event.

Miss Samuelson, who lived in the town of Goldfield, had a sister, Mary Belle, who was cute and she, like me, was in the seventh grade. Mary Belle, we were informed, had prepared a box for the social as had her friend and classmate from Goldfield. Bernard Roskamp and I determined that we would buy those two boxes: I would get Mary Belle's, he would get her friend's. So we made sure that when the boxes came in we knew just which ones we had to bid on; and I was prepared, if necessary, to go as high as a dollar fifty, maybe even $2.00 to buy her box. While $3.00 seemed to be the going rate that night, some of the boxes were being bid up to the astronomical prices of $5.00 or even $6.00. Finally, Mary Belle's box came out for the bidding. "Who'll give me fifty cents to start the bidding on this neat little box?" I signaled that I would. A little to my disappointment, that was as far as it went: nobody else bid on the box; so I had a bargain meal. Bernard had a similar fortune in getting his box. The rest of the adventure was quite a disappointing experience as well. Somehow, neither Bernard nor I could think of anything to say while we were eating with the young ladies. And they were equally quiet. We just sat there in embarrassed silence and consumed the contents. That was the one and only box social I ever participated in, and it, for all I know, may have been what killed that form of entertainment forever after.

Norway No. 3 made up a nice little community. The constituency of the school was pretty well divided between the German-Dutch and the Norwegians.

We, the Roskamps, Davids, Ruters and Verbruggees went either to the Christian Reformed church in Kanawha or the Wright CRC in the country. The two Johnson families, the two Larson families, and the Burnhams went either to the Lutheran church or the Methodist church. The latter group also went to the "show" (movies) in town on Wednesday evenings which we of the former group were not usually allowed to do. In spite of these differences, we got along well, both as neighbors and as fellow students. My parents exchanged occasional visits with both the Johnson families, in addition to quite a few other families in the broader community. The custom in arranging most of the social engagements in that time and place, was that the would-be visiting family would call in advance and find out if the would-be visited was going to be home and if they would like company that night. If they were and they would (or said they would), the visit would take place.

The parents of the district would elect a director each year to be in charge of the school. It was his job to see that the school carried on its operation and that there would be a teacher for the year. Generally speaking, the school was quite secular as far as religious observance was concerned. Religious Christmas carols were sung, but generally the pledge of allegiance was the normal way to commence the school day. One year, however, George Roskamp was elected to be the director. That year the teacher would start the day having us all recite the Lord's prayer together and she would encourage us to "say grace" before we began our noon lunch. After the prayer and/or the pledge of allegiance, we would sing for about 20 minutes, songs like "Old Black Joe," "Oh, Suzanna," "Carry me back to Old Virginny," and a host of other old classics. With this being such an established part of the school day, one of the requirements for the teacher was that she be able to play the piano. Miss Kvale, while quite capable in other ways, wasn't able to do that, and singing deteriorated to abysmal levels that year.

In front of Norway Township # 3 1940

The eight plus years that I spent in Norway No. 3 were basically pleasant and enjoyable. I think I learned the basics reasonably well although the variety of subject material was much less than students get today.

Wright County Superintendent of Schools, Claude Sankey, would conduct a periodic visit to the school. On one occasion he spoke to us at some length, and afterward he commented that the boy sitting right there (pointing at me) was an excellent listener. "He heard every word I said." Maybe that indicated even then that I enjoyed listening to speeches, which I usually do.

I was, by the standards of that rural school, a pretty good student, did quite well in all my subjects, even ending up the valedictorian in my class (of three). Spelling, was always my easiest subject and I doubt if I ever got less than a 100 on my report card in that subject. In seventh grade I even placed second in the township spell-down and went on to Clarion to compete with students throughout the county. I didn't place in the county spelldown, however; and next year, in the eighth grade township contest, I only placed fifth. I encountered the word "marmalade". I had never heard of it. We always referred to such stuff as jelly or preserves, so marmalade was like a foreign word to me. I listened carefully to Superintendent Sankey pronounce it: "mar-mo-lade," he said, and that was the way I spelled it. So no honors that year.

My classmates and I graduated from Norway No. 3 in May of 1942 along with approximately 10 students from other Norway Township schools in ceremonies held at Renwick Park and presided over by Superintendent Sankey. In his speech to us the graduates he emphasized, among other things, that it only takes a few minutes or hours to tear down almost anything, but it takes days, years, and maybe even centuries, to build up something worthwhile. He exhorted us to be builders.

Delving back into those days which have receded far into the past I recall the following teachers, some of whom have been mentioned: Johanna Anfinson, Lavonne Johnson, Gladys Asbe, Beverly Larson, Evelyn Janson, Lucille Samuelson and Clarice Kvale. Some of the students outside my own family who preceded me were: Duane Johnson; Kenny, Audrey and Roger Johnson; Virginia (?) and John (Bus/Red) Larson; Gladys and Percy Roskamp, John and Leonard (Bob) Davids; and Wendell Burnham. Classmates and those who followed me include: Bob Larson, Bernard and Gene Roskamp, Donald Davids, Gene Larson, Deloris and Maryann Johnson, Marjorie, Nick and Donald Verbruggee, and Greta and Norman Ruter. If there were others, they have temporarily been lost in my memory retrieval.

Norway No. 3 survived my passing on to higher and supposedly better things in high school.

Later, while I was in college, my cousin Helen Assink even became the teacher there for a time. Shortly after that, however, in 1951, the school was closed as the State of Iowa proceeded to consolidate all the country schools into larger school districts in nearby towns.

The building itself was demolished soon after and all that remains there on the northeast corner of that intersection of graveled roads today is a corn or soybean field. A motorist traveling by on those roads might never guess that the one acre on this corner could have been the scene of such an important segment of history. But if you should pass by there and pause for a few minutes, and the time and the mood is just right, phantoms from a different time will appear. You might even detect the doleful harp-like sound of the wind as it strums the windows of a busy schoolroom and see faint images of a teacher and dutiful pupils engaging in their arithmetic or reading assignments. More distinctly, perhaps, penetrating your reverie, you will catch the happy voices of playing children as their visages flit here and there on the playground. And for me at least, a host of memories will be revived, memories almost as real as the momentous things which occurred there in the days when the school existed.

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Looking Back by Paul Assink

Chapter 8: One Room Schoolhouse - Norway Township #3