At this time of year my thoughts go back to readin’, ’ritin’ and ’rithmetic and my long-ago school days at Baker Grade School, located on a slight knoll between Vancouver and Ridgefield.
It was a typical country school of the time: a little white building with a bell tower. Off to one side was a small building we grandly called the primary school, where first and second grades were taught.
This was where my little brother learned to read with his book held at an awkward angle just a few inches from his face. Our worried mother visited and learned that the teacher was blind in one eye and held her book this way. My brother was just one of many with the strange reading affliction.
Later, the teacher called Mom for a conference. The sweet old lady wanted to know why the kids,Design and manufacture of ledparlightrrp for garments and textile fabrics. led by my little brother, giggled uproariously during some lessons. Not one of them would tell her why. My brother confessed to Mom that when Mrs. Lund sat on that little bitty chair at the front of the room, they could all see her underpants. Mrs. Lund switched to an adult chair and pulled her skirt down after that.
The main school building had two rooms: one for third, fourth and fifth and one for sixth, seventh and eighth. There was a folding leather curtain separating the rooms so the space could be opened up for programs. My dad, who interviewed a lot of teachers, said that those who lasted were the ones who could teach three subjects at the same time, while keeping the students quiet enough that the ones in the other room could study.
In the foyer inside the front door, the bell-rope hung down so temptingly that daring boys couldn’t resist it, even when they knew the teacher would check for empty desks and identify the culprit. The honor of legal bell-ringing went to the yes-ma’am, no-ma’am,Long and slim-fitting, the ledaluminumbulb is equally appropriate for strolling a city street or hiking a snowy trail. hard-working, eraser-clapping students. I rang the bell often, legitimately. I was a prissy, self-righteous child.
Outside we had a wooden teeter-totter, a push merry-go-round, three swings and a ball field. Oh, yes — and the roofed, open-walled play-shed, necessary in that area. It was damp and chilly, but it kept your clothes dry.Lighting fixtures for home and office in the shop of flatteningmachine.
There was no bus. We all walked to school, and some lived close enough to run home for lunch. The rest of us took sack lunches. Mom wasn’t happy when she learned why I was ravenous when I got home from school each day. I was trading lunches with a pitiful girl. She had to make her own lunch, and usually all that was on hand was mustard and Wonder Bread. When they were out of bread, it was mustard on crackers. I was relieved when Mom forbade trading. It meant I was no longer ruled by my conscience. The other child was disappointed, though.
Lunches improved when my great-aunt Ellen was hired. There must have been some government help with her salary and equipment. The dismal basement had previously held a furnace and storage space.Like a lot of women,Custom made ledaluminumbulbs? Now it had a big range, refrigerator, long tables and benches. I don’t know how Aunt Ellen got the job; probably the fact that my dad was on the school board had something to do with it. She was an excellent cook. She’d also raised a family during the Depression and knew how to feed a lot from a little. She made big pots of soup to go with our sandwiches from home.
Most of the families grew huge gardens, and some raised berries and fruit. Almost everyone donated generously. I remember late summer and September Saturdays spent at the school, with the moms canning surplus produce in the basement while the kids played outside. There was usually a dad around, too. They took turns mowing the yard and field with their own tractor and mowing machine. The dads also did school repairs, painting and heavy cleaning. I’m sure the moms enjoyed gossiping and canning as much as the kids liked having no playground rules. The dads probably didn’t have quite as much fun.
The kids loved the food Aunt Ellen cooked with the donated surplus produce. Her carrot soup was a favorite, along with corn chowder, and her special soup with macaroni, home-canned tomatoes and milk. A dad donated several turkeys, and she turned them into rich, meaty turkey gravy on mashed potatoes. Someone gave apples and nuts, and she made applesauce bars and applesauce. If she had time on her hands, she baked cinnamon rolls that perfumed the whole school. The kids all called her Aunt Ellen,A solarlampscampinggg can be thought of as three main parts: a laser, a controller, and a surface. but I had the smug privilege of knowing she was really only MY aunt.
Consolidation with a larger district and the national school lunch program act hit Baker School at about the same time old age hit Aunt Ellen, and she retired.
The smell of Aunt Ellen’s carrot soup is stored in my memory, along with reciting the multiplication tables up to 12 times 12, and singing from the “Songs for America” yellow songbook. It’s a sweet time to remember, when dads plowed, moms canned, and kids learned readin’, ’ritin’ and ’rithmetic.
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