My school days began in a one-room country schoolhouse in Phelps, Michigan. The schoolhouse was a small red brick building, with cement steps leading to the front door. The outhouse sat behind the building.

Student seats were bolted to the bare wood floor. We were seated by grade–boys on one side of the aisle, girls on the other. The teacher’s desk sat in front of the recitation bench, and a black chalkboard hung between the only two windows.

A wood stove dominated the center of the room. Kids who sat directly beside it were too hot. Kids who sat next to the walls had to blow on their fingers and shuffle their feet to keep warm.

School wasn’t supposed to be fun. It was hard work. We sat in our seats and memorized spelling words and the rules of arithmetic. We didn’t have pencils and paper was scarce. So the little kids practiced their penmanship on stone slates with slate pencils. Sometimes the older kids wrote with a quill pen dipped in an inkwell. If we missed a lesson or talked out of turn we had to sit in the corner. I sat in the corner more than once.

Each morning the teacher rang the school bell. That was our signal to form a single line and troop into the building. After we shed our outer clothing, put our tin lunch pails on the shelf above the coat rack, and stood next to our assigned seats, the teacher marched to the front of the room and stood at attention. We then pledged allegiance to the flag and the teacher read a prayer from the Bible.

At the end of the day, we helped with the chores–cleaning blackboards, pounding erasers, sweeping the floor, carrying water, and filling the wood box.

Dorothy Smith was our young teacher. She taught all subjects to all students in all eight grades. I can still hear her squeaky voice, “Grade one! Spelling! Stand! Pass!” With that the two students in first grade shuffled up to the recitation bench. The rest of us were supposed to sit in our seats and be quiet.

Miss Smith was what we called “nervous.” So, after recess, an appointed student would sneak around the corner and call “Whooh, Whooh,” through the ventilator. This was all funny until the day Miss Smith caught me and sent me to the coal house to take my lickin’.

When Miss Smith finally arrived, hickory rod in hand, I scrambled to the top of the coal pile, heaved coal at her, jumped out the window, and ran home.

I guess I deserved the lickin’ I got from Dad and the lickin’ I got from Miss Smith when Dad marched me back to school and made me apologize.