EMMA BUSH COLUMN: I'm starting to sound like a little, old white haired lady

We really started something when we began to talk about the old one-room schools and about the memories they created that have stayed with us all these years. One man contacted me about his memories regarding this topic and I am sharing his comments below.

"The walk to school was two miles, twice a day, and very few rides came along. You can bet that when the children got home they were starved. The fresh baked bread that was waiting for them when they got home was a life saver and it created memories that lasted a lifetime. I can still smell the fresh baked smell and taste the soft bread spread with homemade butter from side-to-side between its crispy crusts.

I remember that there was lots of poetry to be memorized. One was the "Village Blacksmith" and another was "Someone Said it Couldn't Be Done" by Edgar Guest. The amount of time spent reading and memorizing and reciting poetry depended upon the teacher and her fondness for poetry. I remember that our teacher must have really loved poetry.

There was always a Christmas program and now the public school system is forced to prohibit even using the word Jesus or the singing of Christmas carols.

Winter was the hardest time of all. Many ears and feet were frost bitten or frozen, sometimes leaving a life-time of pain. Children who would try cutting through a field that was a short cut in the summer time soon learned that in the winter-time it was a wet, muddy, hard walk and always took more time in the cold than going home along the roadway.

Another man remembers that two young boys were sledding at Christmas time down a long driveway that went down a long hill and out onto the roadway. The two were hit by a car that killed them both. They were classmates at the same school and had been practicing Christmas pieces for the program that they never got to attend. The family, the neighborhood, the school and the entire community were shocked and saddened. The words to their Christmas piece that they practiced over and over and never got to present still rings in the mind of the man who remembers it all. Whenever he thinks of those two boys, he says that it still saddens him. That's the way it was in those days. Neighbors knew neighbors and strong relationships were made. Honesty was expected between friends and neighbors all around and everyone lived up to the expectation.

When I read the part above where it says, “the words of the Christmas parts they practiced over and over again and never got to present still rings in his ears and it saddens him,” reminds me of how I felt as I was relating the World War II stories told by my brother, John Frederick. Once I got them out and on paper, it felt better inside. Wouldn't it be something if the same thing happened to the man who is saddened by the recollection of those two boys, that once he sees it expressed openly and written, that it somehow helps him? It will never make up for the loss but perhaps it will be somehow settled for him and placed in the hands of the Lord.

As long as we are revisiting prior topics, I might as well continue by adding another story about a one-room school. My 72-year-old nephew who types up the articles for me told me his story about going to a one-room school. Here's his story.

"We lived in a basement house on Daggett Road near Dewitt when it was time for me to go to school. Actually, I was more than 7 years old and it was one and a half years past time for me to start school. My dad had decided that I would spend years and years in school, so what’s the rush.

One day in late September, I started school in a one-room country school named Hurd School that was located on Hurd road near Dewitt. My first teacher's name was, guess what, Mrs. Hurd. On my first day, I walked in and things were kind of confusing, so I just sat in one of the desks that fit me along by the window. School started, and Mrs. Hurd discovered that one of her kindergarten kids was missing, me. I raised my hand and she called me over to the kindergarten area. I sat down in a little dinky chair at a table that was so low to the floor that my knees stuck up over the top of the table.

After much giggling from all the kids, Mrs. Hurd promoted me to the first grade right on the spot and put me at a bigger desk. I was lucky that my mom had taught me how to read and spell and in the summertime, my gramma and aunts had been tutoring me since they had heard that my dad was holding me back one year.

Things went great. I was able to get my work done in record time and then spent my time listening in when Mrs. Hurd took turns teaching the rest of the upper grades. I was in high heaven. I did soon learn, however, not to raise my hand to answer questions for anything except my own first grade stuff since the older kids would glare at me and then visit me in the school yard during recess about making them look bad.

As the fall turned to winter, the two mile walk to school became colder and colder. The school had a wood furnace that usually stayed lit over night, but not always. One day it snowed so hard that my mom sent me to school early so I wouldn’t be late. As I entered the school, it was just as cold inside the school as it was outside. As I walked down the hall toward the open furnace room door, I could hear Mrs. Hurd clanking the grates and mumbling and grumbling. As I stood in the doorway I realized that she wasn't just mumbling and grumbling she was swearing a blue streak as she tried to clean out the ashes and restart the fire.

To swear a blue streak, I found out later, means that you not only use swear words to describe a situation, but that you are also good at doing it in a very impressive, rapid fire manner. I have to admit that I do remember being very impressed as I stood in the furnace room doorway.

She looked up and stared at me in surprise realizing that I heard her every word. She was relieved to find that I knew how to put the wood in where it went and how to start a fire. Later on, she let me ring the school bell at the top of the long rope that reached up into the steeple to call everyone in. I think it was a thank you for helping her and maybe a silent bribe to keep me quiet about what I had heard that morning.

So there you have it, yet another couple of one-room school stories. There's another one next week about a city girl who grew up, got married, had children, moved to the country, and then was shocked to discovered that her children would be going to a one-room school!

In closing, here's my latest medical report. I must be starting to sound like a little, old white haired lady who tells you all about her aches and pains every time you see her, even before you say, "Hi, how are you?” But then again, that's just exactly what I am, a little, old white haired lady. So maybe that makes it OK somehow.

Anyway, I still don't have a follow-up appointment for my lung situation, but I did spend a little time in the emergency room last week. The night before, I had fallen at home when I got tangled up between my chair and the end table while I was getting up from watching TV. I laid there for a while, looked things over, and felt around and couldn't find anything broken so I started to try and get up. It took a while, but I finally got the table off me and was able to get up and make it to bed.

My leg didn't bother me at all until late the next day when it started to hurt really bad. The hospital found nothing broken, just a lump on my muscle complete with a nice black and blue spot. Today, a week later, my whole leg, from my ankle to my thigh bone, looks like the northern lights on clear cold night. Every shade of dark blue, light blue and yellow against the black backdrop of midnight black. It hurts, but I'll live. This is nothing compared to what happened at the blackberry patch.

I will soon be as good a new. Well, maybe not that good. As you get closer and closer to being a hundred, you tend to lose parts here and there along the way. It's not like it was back in the ancient days when the bible says that Moses lived to be 950 years old. I can't imagine being that old. But then, if the Lord wants me to do it, he will provide the way.