Chapter 9 On the Farm - Playtimes

Viewed in the gentle warm glow which illumines the scenes of days gone by, my life on the farm in the 1930's and 1940's presents me with a myriad of fond memories.  

The weather, it seems, was usually warm and pleasant; the skies, sunny and blue; play times, interesting, even exciting; and work, invigorating, if not always exhilarating.  Any recollections of stifling heat, dismal gray days, frigid north winds, boring times or wearisome work tend to remain securely tucked away in the more receded compartments of my memory. 


Paul and Ruth
My earlier years were dominated by play.  Ruth and I played together quite a bit and very seldom fought, a fact which impressed my father enough for him to comment on it on more than one occasion.  We played "house" and "school;" climbed the evergreen trees and box elders to get a higher view or to examine birds' nests; bounded from boulder to boulder in our collection of those glacial rocks in the corner of our barnyard; walked on rolling oil drums, and did a host of other things. 
           

In our very first spring on the new farm we experienced the fascination of what matches could do.  We had been warned about playing with matches, but in our wisdom, concluded that we could handle them with no problem.  

Old dead pine needles, we discovered, burned nicely and the three rows of evergreen trees to the west of the house had all kinds of old, dead pine needles under them.  We heaped some needles together and struck a match to ignite the pile.  It burned beautifully--and rapidly.  The yellow-orange tongues of fire lapped out hungrily.  Startled, we quickly stomped out the flames which lashed out in another direction.  But no sooner had we extinguished those and the flames darted out in three other directions.  In a moment we realized that the flames were spreading much more rapidly than our little feet could snuff them out.  We ran to the house and called Ma.  She immediately called the fire department in Kanawha, then hurried out in a desperate attempt to control what was becoming a raging blaze.  Pa saw the smoke and fire from the field, stopped the tractor and ran home to join the fight against the spreading flames.  By this time Ruth and I had run for cover into the hay loft of the barn where, peering through a crack in the door, we watched our parents in their furious battle with the conflagration.  Eventually, the fire truck came, but by that time the fire had run its course, having consumed all the layered needles under the trees.  When the smoke finally cleared away, it could be seen that some tree trunks were charred, but fortunately, no trees were ignited and the grove of evergreens was spared from a fiery destruction.  Ruth and I now mustered the courage to come out of our hiding, chastened by the experience and promising never to play with matches again.
            

Understandably, I had acquired a respect for the ferocity of fire, and that respect would be reinforced a few years later.  

It was an evening in late November of 1937 and the first snow of the season had fallen.  My father and Henry and Harold had finished the milking and other chores and we were all seated at the supper table having our evening Bible reading when the telephone interrupted.  It was a neighbor, Sylvia Johnson, inquiring whether our barn was on fire.  Henry ran to the north window and instantly confirmed that indeed it was.  Ma hung up the phone and then called for the fire department, while Pa and Henry dashed out to the barn to turn out the cows and horses.  Harold was delayed a bit because he couldn't find his cap.  "You won't need a cap," Ma said as she pushed him out the door.  I was instructed to stay in the house.  From the window I watched the flames leaping into the evening sky as the guys hastened to get the 14 cows, two horses and three calves out of the burning barn.  It was a dramatic race to accomplish this task before the fiery hayloft, filled to the top with the season's hay, would burn through its floor and possibly collapse on them below.  The animals, fortunately, cooperated nicely and all of them were led out safely with considerable time to spare before the floor finally did burn through and the loft collapsed to ground level.
            
What a sickening experience to watch our barn go up in flames and then, next, to see nothing there but a smoldering residue of ashes and twisted metal.  A recollection of the odor from that burned debris comes back to me every time I come across a burned out place.  Although this was a significant calamity, my father was too busy that night talking to all the spectators who had gathered from far an near to immediately become overwhelmed by this catastrophe.   But it did call for immediate decisions about what to do with the cattle over the winter.  In short order that question was resolved.  The machinery was moved out of the machine shed and that space was converted to a temporary barn. Then, with a $2,000 insurance settlement, my Dad very soon made plans to build a new barn.
            

The building of that new barn the following spring and summer of 1938 was an exciting episode in my life.  

It was interesting to watch the progress of the building as the construction people dug the foundation, laid the clean new concrete floor, installed the shiny new cow stanchions, built the brick wall up to about eight feet and then, the most interesting part of all, built the hay loft and upper portions of the barn.  The new hay loft (we called it haymow) gave Ruth and me a fantastic opportunity.  We now had for ourselves our own roller skating rink.  The floor was not, to be sure, quite as smooth as a commercial rink, but it was large and it was unobstructed.  And so we skated and we skated, round and round, hour after hour.  And our relatives and our friends skated.  What a summer!  But that would not last forever.  Haymows are built for hay, and about mid-June the first cutting of hay put an end to our roller rink.  But haymows have their attractions with hay in them too.  What a marvelous place to climb and jump or somersault with the reassuring safety net of hay below you; or to dig caves and tunnels and play hide and seek.  The haymow was an irreplaceable ingredient of a child's life on the farm.

About a half mile east of our place a dredged creek ran through.  I seldom went there by myself but almost certainly when friends or cousins came over that would be on our playtime agenda.  


 The creek had quite a few trees growing along its banks, and this made our expeditions along this waterway all the more interesting.  Right next to the creek about a half mile north of the road there was a gravel pit left there by a melting glacier thousands of years earlier.  I didn't know about the glaciers at that time in my life, nor did I speculate as to how that area of concentrated gravel could have collected there.  I supposed that it was just there; or that perhaps God had somehow seen fit to create it in place.  However it may have come to be, the gravel was very useful to spread on the dirt roads in the country to make them passable in wet weather.  By time I had come on the scene most of the useful gravel had already been extracted from that pit, but in the process, a hole was left, a hole that usually had water in it.  Quite a few trees also grew around the pit and made this spot an attractive place to capture tadpoles and frogs, and observe birds, muskrats and, occasionally, other animals.  We would often swim there too, when the water wasn't too scummy.  As the years passed, the pit began to lose its appeal when the owner of that property began to dump his broken down machinery and other refuse there.

As Ruth and I grew older we began to outgrow "house" and "school" and go our separate ways in play.  

I'm not really sure what occupied Ruth's time, although she did take up piano playing.  As for myself, I began to spend more time in the fantasy world of baseball.  Not having seen a major league ball park or even a good picture of one, I was left with my imagination as to what was happening when I listened to play-by-play descriptions of games on the radio.  While at my uncle Bert Roskamp's place in July of 1937 we listened to the all-star game.  I was for the National League, I discovered, because Dizzy and Daffy Dean and Joe Medwick and the other St. Louis Cardinals were National Leaguers.  While listening to the game, Lou Gehrig of the Yankees, an American Leaguer, hit one over the fence.  "A home run!" they announced; but I held out the hope that there might yet be a possibility that the fielders could crawl over, or under, or through the fence and retrieve the ball in time to throw him out at home.  Such was my ignorance.
           

Ronald  "Dutch"  Reagan
I spent many a summer afternoon by the radio listening to Gene Schumate broadcast games of my favorite team, the Cardinals.  Sometimes I would listen to "Dutch" Reagan (later, President Ronald Reagan) give the play-by-play description of  Chicago Cub games over radio station WHO in Des Moines where he was a popular sportscaster before going on into a Hollywood movie career.
            

But, I was not content to be a mere passive listener.  I acquired a good firm rubber ball and became a pitcher.  

Our new barn had a fortunate and conveniently located configuration of like-colored bricks on it that approximated the dimensions of a strike zone.  The pitcher's plate, approximately 60 feet away, was just behind the pump house, and it was from there that I pitched hundreds of games before countless thousands of cheering fans.  When I hurled the ball with enough accuracy to hit the strike zone on the barn, it would be a "strike;" if not, it would be a "ball."  As time went on my control became good enough so that I could consistently pitch shutouts.  My parents could never figure out how I could enjoy throwing the ball at the barn hour after hour, day after day.  They didn't realize that dramatic ball games were being played with the fortunes of pennant races and World Series victories at stake.
            
The control I developed in those hours would later serve me well when I pitched for my high school baseball team, the Kanawha Bulldogs.  I even made some money from my control.  In the summer of 1946 after my last year in high school, Britt had its annual Hobo Day celebration.  Among the many carnival games and concessions there was one in which the object was to dunk a hobo into a tank of water.  The hobo was seated above the tank of water with a small six-inch disk extended to the side.  The object was to hit that disk with a baseball which would then spring his seat and dunk him into the tank.  You put down $1.00 and got three base- balls.  One hit would give you the satisfaction of dunking the hobo but would win you nothing.  Two hits would give you your money back and three hits would win you $3.00.  Now, I have never been gifted with a lot of money to throw away, so I decided in advance that I would not waste more than three dollars.  I had watched quite a few people try their skill at dunking the hobo, but rarely did anyone do more than occasionally dunk him one time.  I tried it.  The first time, I dunked him twice and got three more balls, free.  The next time I dunked him three times and won $3.00.  From there, I kept throwing, breaking even or winning on almost every occasion.  A crowd began to gather to watch while the hobo, who had earlier been taunting those who attempted to dunk him, was now becoming weary of crawling out of the tank and getting back on his seat only to be dunked again.  Before long I had accumulated over $20.00, which in those days was a significant wad of dough.  The operator of the concession finally told me that if I won one more time he would have to close up the concession for the night.  Not wanting to spoil the fun for others, I stopped for the night and the game continued.  The next night I came back.  Immediately, the operator recognized me and told me I could win $5.00 and then he would have to ask me to stop.  So this time, as soon as I won $3.00  I went on my way.
            
But, I was not only a pitcher.  I liked the hitting part of the game as well.  Early in my childhood I had learned to toss the ball up and hit it with the bat.  I soon constructed a game from this on the large lawn south of our house.  I would toss the ball up and hit it as far as I could.  If I didn't hit it beyond a certain point, it would be an "out."  Hitting the ball to certain points beyond that would be singles, doubles or triples; and if I could hit it into the ditch by the road, it would be a home run.  I bought my own bat, a Louisville Slugger, for 58 cents, having saved the money from setting tenpins for two cents per line in the tenpin bowling alley in Kanawha.  In these hitting contests I would be both the home team, which was "my team" and the opposing team for whom I struggled equally hard in order to make the games exciting.
            
There was one big drawback with this game, however, especially as my batting skills increased; and that was that I had to retrieve the ball after every hit.  Our dog was willing to chase the ball and get it, but then I'd have to chase him down in order to get it back; so I preferred to leave him out of the contest.  Later, I devised a similar game but used stones instead, and hit the stones with clubs made from small limbs of trees.  Instead of the front lawn I transferred the ball park to the hog yard east of the barn.  The evergreen trees to the north were the centerfield bleachers where the home runs would land.  This worked quite well, and I wouldn't have to retrieve the stones, but eventually I would run out of stones and have to go on an  expedition to replenish my stock.

Children were designed to play.  That is their way of preparing for the real world, physically, mentally, and socially.  The farm, though sometimes short on opportunities to play with other kids, was replete with the opportunities for freedom to exercise one's imagination.  My play times were pleasant times.

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Chapter 8: One Room Schoolhouse - Norway Township #3

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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Chapter 7: 1934

1934 was my introduction to history--the year when time and dates began to take on significance.  

I heard about 1934 in the year 1933.  I didn't know it was 1933 then; all I knew was that in 1934 we were going to move.  1934 was the first date that I can remember.  I can remember many things that happened in 1933, probably some things that happened in 1932, and possibly a thing or two that happened even earlier.  But 1934 was the first date, the first year that I can remember anyone ever referring to.  It was my introduction to the idea that time moves along in a line and that it could be labeled.  The future, which had not arrived yet, would have a different label than the present or the past.
      
Now, when I first heard about the coming of 1934 I did not, as far as I know, tell myself that this was 1933, and that some time before it had been only 1932.  If it had been explained to me in that way the explanation has been forgotten.  I can remember only being assured that some time in the future--not too long into the future--we would be moving to a new place.  And that would be a major event, one of the first truly big events that I would look forward to and which would occur in a time which had a name given to it--1934.  I'm not even sure whether I thought of 1934 as "1934"--a number--or as "nineteen thirty-four"--words.  It seems, almost, that I could see the numbers in my mind when the term was spoken; but that may have been my later learning revisiting and revising my memory.
           
I don't remember either when it was that I first learned that we would be moving in 1934.  I had started first grade at Amsterdam Township School District No. 4 in September of that year while I was still four years old.  A month and a half later I would celebrate my fifth birthday.   I clearly recall that morning of my fifth birthday, and of course, I was well aware that "five years old" was a great deal older than "four years old."  I am sure, in this case, "five" was a number--a "5"--not just a word.  I had looked forward for some time to becoming five years old for very good reasons.  Five years old would be much bigger and stronger than four years old, and able, no doubt, to run much faster too.

As a matter of fact, on that frosty morning of October 17, 1933 I would conduct the first demonstration of what it means to become one year older.  

I announced to my parents and family before break-fast that I had to go out to prove how much faster I could run now that I was five year old.  Being so much older, no doubt my feet would fairly fly over the ground.  I would conduct my impressive demonstration starting by the house, and run down the lane toward the machine shed and back again.  Obviously, I didn't have the benefit of a stop watch or of previous timed runs with which to compare this run, but, of course, that would be totally unnecessary anyway.  It would be clearly apparent that, being now five years old, I would greatly exceed any speed that I had ever produced before while I was only four years old.
           
So I set myself in the ready position.  Then, I lunged forward, giving it all I had, down the lane to the machine shed, then back again, up to the house.  Frankly, and much to my great disappointment, I honestly couldn't detect, even though I was a whole year older that morning, that I was one whit faster.  I went back into the house deflated.          
"Well, did you run a lot faster?" brother Henry asked.  How do you respond to a question like that when the hopes and expectations of weeks, perhaps even months were shattered in a major disappointment?  I softened the harsh reality a bit: "Yeah, I think so.  A little, anyway."

Christmas day of 1933 came.  Santa had even visited the night before.  Harold had shown Ruth and me his boot prints in the snow outside the house.  That Santa should have rather small boots and heels like my mother's did seem a bit strange, perhaps, but who were we to question what Santa's footprints were like.  But I mention Christmas because by this time the fact that we were going to move in 1934 was well-established and we were beginning to look forward to that day.  New Year's Day came and went without, as far as I know, any- thing notable happening or my even being aware that there was such a day as "New Year's Day."

But, finally, 1934 came, on March 1.  

March 1 was moving day.  The time-honored tradition was that everyone who had to move from one farm to another would move on March 1.  That way there would not have to be any double occupancy or any delays due to one party still residing where another party was to move to.
           
March 1, 1934 was a pretty nice day.  I recall riding on a horse-drawn wagon for one of the seven-mile trips that were made from our old farm to the new farm as furniture, chickens, and a lot of junk was moved.  I suppose we may have had a truck move some of the animals, but I remember the cows were driven along the road by foot for those seven miles.  We even passed the new school which we would be attending and noticed all the kids watching the moving procession pass by.
           
I remember lying on the porch steps on the south side of our "new" house as that day progressed.  The March sun was comfortably warm.  Sport, our airedale dog, kept me company, and it was cozy there in the sun.  It was a new home for me, a new farm.  The box elder trees just south of me marked the northern boundary of a spacious lawn that extended all the way to another row of trees next to the road separating us from the Verbruggees who lived across it.
   
I would miss our old place, of course, with the big grove of trees, the flowing well and the nearby creek.  But for now, it was pleasant here.  There were new horizons to view, exciting new terrain and unfamiliar buildings to explore; and, best of all, a lot of evergreen trees, some of them with branches smooth enough to climb.  The big gray barn had on it the words: "Clover Leaf Farm."  It was 1934, and life promised pleasant days ahead on such a farm.

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Chapter 6: Amsterdam Township #4

AMSTERDAM TOWNSHIP NO. 4

I was four years old, soon to be five, when I began my formal education in the little one-room school at Amsterdam Township No. 4.  The school was a mile east and a mile south of where we lived.  Like most rural schools in the midwest in my childhood, every four-square mile section of land would, if population patterns permitted, have a school located in the center of it.  Amsterdam township in the southern part of Hancock County had the usual pattern.  My school was located as far from our home as it normally could be because our farm was in the far corner of the mile section, and our farm buildings were in the far corner of the farm.  So, yes, it is true: I walked two miles to school every day.  Occasionally, though, Henry, a senior in high school when I started first grade, would take the family car to school and we (Harold, Ruth and I) would get a ride.  When the weather was dry, Harold would sometimes lead us diagonally through the fields to shorten our route home.


Starting first grade at four years of age was a bit young, but there was no Kindergarten in that school,

and my mother considered me quite bright; so with cousin Gretchen Vander Ploeg being our teacher, my educational career was launched.  I joined approximately 15 other students scattered throughout the eight grades, among whom were Ruth in second grade, and Harold in eighth grade.
            
My classmate was Carroll Carlson.  I thought it was funny that he could not say "six."  He always said "ticth."  Teacher labored with him on that for some time, but, to my knowledge, he never conquered that problem that year in spite of all the times I volunteered to say "six" for him.
            
If my memory serves me correctly, we had some good-sized spelling words to write and addition problems which were at least 3 digits high.  Today I'm a good speller, but I remember one day I had problems with the spelling words, and Gretchen was convinced that I had been dawdling with my time and not studying them.  She kept me in from recess and made me stand at the board until I got them; or until, perhaps, she was convinced that I couldn't get them.


Not only was I taught the three R's at Amsterdam No. 4, I was also taught what morality was all about.  

A most dramatic lesson occurred during the afternoon recess one sunny, very pleasant day, early in the school year, probably September. Some of us first and second graders, including myself, Ruth, Merle Mickelson, and Carroll Carlson and his sisters Leona and Marjorie, were sitting together on the grass under the shade trees by the swings.  How the particular subject came up I don't know, but we apparently began discussing the private parts of the anatomy.  Whether I was challenged or I simply volunteered, I cannot say either, but shamelessly I offered to show my "wee-wee" and, unfastening the lower buttons of my coveralls, I did just that.  Now, Ruth and I, on one occasion earlier that summer when cousin Beth was visiting us, had doffed our swim suits and cavorted naked across our back yard.  And my dad, happening to witness that bold flouting of the rules of common decency, did intervene and reprimanded us, but only mildly; so I had not fully comprehended the gravity of this depraved kind of behavior yet.  But I soon would.  For some reason, maybe it was a kind providence intent upon sparing me from a life of sexual degeneracy,--whatever--Gretchen happened to be looking out the schoolhouse window at just that moment.  And posthaste, out she charged and, with a ferocity befitting righteous indignation, she grabbed me by the nape of the neck and marched me into the school building.  That was not enough.  I also had to stay after school so I would be sure to learn a lesson I should never forget.  Well, I did learn a lesson.  I learned that wee-wees were not for display, particularly if there were little girls present.

There were fun times and extra-curricular events at that little school too.  We gave a school program for the parents and neighbors one evening which I remember only vaguely.  More clear was a school party that I, along with others, had made little boats for the occasion constructed from the half shells of walnuts.  These half shells were filled with wax and a toothpick with a paper flag was then inserted into the wax.  The object of this enterprise was to have a boat race across a basin of water, water to which a bottle of blue ink had been added for enhanced realism.  We lined up our faces behind the boats and, on signal, began blowing them to propel them across the stormy seas.  I don't recall the outcome of the race.  I suspect my boat tipped and floundered shortly after the initial gust which launched it.

There was also that silly game of bobbing for apples in a tub of water.  

That proved to be quite difficult, to say nothing of it being rather senseless.  First of all, the apples were much too big for a little first grader's mouth to clamp onto.   Besides, the pesky apples refused to stay put.  After a few exasperating moments of futility and frustration, I did what any resourceful little human being would do:  I used the two hands God gave me and held that apple and sank my teeth into it.  In spite of the protests of the other contestants and because the attention of the older student judging the contest had apparently been diverted, I won the prize.  I could have the apple I had conquered.  But, as consolation to the losers who had not been so inventive as I, they also were given an apple.  So, really, my conscience was relieved of having to battle over that illicit victory.  It was, as I said, a silly game.

The day would come, even before the first year was over, when we would leave Amsterdam No. 4, for our family would move to a new farm and we would attend a new school; this one only about a mile from our new home. 

Although there was a neighborhood farewell party held for our family, I remember little of any farewells actually exchanged with my schoolmates or others.  The pain of parting, of course, was not really understood yet, but a sense that I would soon be leaving behind some friends was beginning to dawn on me.  The anticipation and excitement of moving, however, would far exceed that pain.  A new day with a new environment and new people in my life was about to begin.  Of that reality, too, I was only vaguely aware.  The future, of course, is always clouded in a dense, impenetrable mist, but I'm glad that even then the cloud bank toward which I was heading had been made to appear, if not exactly bright with opportunity, at least not dark and foreboding.  This balanced way of viewing the future--not unrealistically bright nor ominously dark--seems to have generally been my perspective on life ever since.  There are, no doubt, better ways to view the future, but this early pattern seems to have set the course for the rest of my earthly ventures into the unknowns of the days lying ahead.
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Chapter 8: One Room Schoolhouse - Norway Township #3

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