We arrived at school in plenty of time. The morning bell hadn’t rung and a small group of kids stood outside the schoolhouse door. I quickly scooted out of the car, lunch sack in hand, waved to Mom and joined the other kids. They were talking in hushed tones and it was all about the new teacher.
“Can you believe they hired a man?”
“Did you know that he has 4 kids?”
“He’s from Boise and it never snows there, well hardly ever, what will he do this winter?”
“Do you think he has a paddle? I heard that men teachers always have paddles.”
“I saw him in town yesterday and he wears really thick glasses, he must be almost blind.”
“My parents want to know, “What was the school board thinking?”
And so the conversation went, until suddenly the door opened and the ringing bell almost deafened us as Mr. Whittaker appeared, swinging the school bell wildly, announcing the first day of school.
“Children, why are you all out here, come inside, let’s find your desks and get acquainted, I’m Mr. Whittaker, your new teacher.” He shouted in a jovial manner.
The other students rushed in but I stopped just inside the door to breath in the familiar smell of linseed oil that made the rough wooden floor look like new. Rows of desks, clean and shiny were awaiting our return. Naked blackboards lined an entire wall with the alphabet written above in capital letters and lower case. Hard backed erasers pounded clean, rested along-side fingers of chalk waiting for the new teachers hand. Newly washed, half curtains, the color of freshly churned butter, fluttered in the breeze as the door opened and closed. The scarred and battered upright piano sat quietly against the wall, waiting for someone to caress its keys, when a special program called for music.
Mr. Whittaker’s voice brought me out of my reverie when he said, “Students, please take your seats, school is now in session.”
Mr. Whittaker looked the part of a schoolteacher, always dressed in a suit and tie, sometimes minus the jacket, depending on the weather. His black hair had started to recede and thin on top, making him appear older than his years. The thick glasses he wore gave him an almost comical look. He seemed to be up to the challenge of teaching eight grades in one room, as he disciplined students when needed and kept an orderly atmosphere. We never did see a paddle. The next two years Mr. Whittaker worked at teaching this bunch of raw farm kids the 3 R’s. He was especially keen on teaching us fourth graders parts of speech and the art of diagraming sentences. One method of teaching he used was assigning older students to help the younger kids by listening to them read or drilling them on spelling words. One day in particular that I remember. I had finished my work and started to fidget at my desk, looking around with a mischievous grin. Mr. Whittaker could have 1. Glared at me. 2. Said, “Idella, find something to do.” But no, instead he said, “Idella please take Linda (a first grader) to the back table and help her practice her arithmetic using flash cards.” I was elated and proud when he chose me to help in this way and he instead of scolding me for possibly disrupting the class, quietly put me to work.
He was good-natured and kind, but we, his students tested him in many ways and our favorite one was; one of the older students would say, Mr. Whittaker, “What was it like when you were a boy growing up?” Then he would lean way back in his chair, put his feet upon his desk, his hands behind his head and with a dreamy look in his eyes he talked for a long time about “when he was a boy”. All thoughts of lessons flew out of his mind as he reminisced.
The desk chair he sat in was old and had a habit of falling over backwards if you leaned back too far, so a stick had been placed just so, to keep it from going over. One day when he went to the teacherage for lunch, someone said, “Lets take the stick our of his chair.”
“Do you think we should?”
“Sure, lets do it, he won’t get hurt.”
The stick was removed and carefully hidden way under the desk. So of course after lunch that day, him with a full stomach, it wasn’t hard to get him to lean back, feet on desk, hands behind his head, and over went the chair. That was the worst trick we played on him and could have caused him serious injury but he escaped unscathed. He wasn’t hurt, except for his feelings, and I remember his unsmiling face as he quickly stood up, straightened his tie and suit jacket, took out a clean white hanky from his pocket and wiped his brow. He stood for a long time, looking out over the classroom and finally said, “I’m disappointed in you students and hope this kind of thing won’t happen again.” That was it, he didn’t threaten us or try to find out who instigated the prank. He just let us know that we didn’t measure up to his expectations.
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