[Canadian West 01] - When Calls the Heart Page 10

  Not all of the students were eager to attend school. I picked out three who, for one reason or another, seemed to prefer going their own way on this lovely fall morning.

  Sally Clark seemed rather absent-minded and uncaring. She was fifteen and probably reasoned that if she had managed thus far without school, why bother now? Besides, she would likely marry in a few years, and she could already bake bread, make quilts and care for babies. Time spent in a classroom with a lot of little children seemed like a total waste of time.

  Eight-year-old Andy Pastachuck may have wanted to learn, but it was clear that he wasn't capable of learning very much. I was told that Andy had been kicked by a horse when he was three years old. The side of his head bore a rugged, vicious scar, and I concluded that Andy's little mind bore a scar as well. I determined that I would do all that I could for him. With his older sister, Teresa, I longed to find some way to protect him from the cruel, angry world.

  David Dickerson had no problem with ability. He was wiry, witty, and had a constant, seemingly uncontrollable energy. He wished to be at all places and involved in all things at once, and found it most difficult to sit still long enough for a fact to catch up to him. This six-year-old thrived on ideas rather than information and jumped quickly from one to another. If I can ever corral all that energy and steer it in the right direction, I thought, I'll have an exceptionally capable student. In the meantime, David seemed to wish to be in the wheatfield, the playground, on his pony, up a pine tree-anywhere but quietly seated at a desk in the classroom. Still, he did have a hunger for knowledge, and I was sure that if I could only get him to sit still long enough, he would learn quickly.

  By the end of our first day spent together, I had been able to introduce my pupils to the open door of learning: but I knew that many difficult days lay ahead before I would be able to sort them into legitimate classes. Certainly I couldn't divide them by age. I would have to wait and discover their learning abilities.

  I went home from my first day in the classroom excited and exhausted. Every student I had-and there were nineteenneeded individual tutoring. Would I be able to handle it? Where would the time come from? How long before some of them could work on their own?

  It seemed that my only recourse was to prepare individual assignments, both after school at night and before school each morning. Then each member of the class would have something to work on as I took time with the individual lessons.

  I sighed deeply at the awesome task that lay ahead of me. Reminding myself that it was a challenge but not an impossibility, I squared my shoulders as I entered the teacherage door.

  I brewed some tea and carried the teapot and my china cup to my chair and sat down. Poking at some of the chair stuffing to make it fit me better, I decided I should get some sort of footstool so that I could put my feet up for a few minutes at the end of the day. I recalled seeing a small wooden crate in the storage shed. Surely I could find enough pieces of material in my sewing basket to cover it. I planned that it would be my next Saturday's project.

  As I relaxed in my big chair and sipped the hot tea, I thought about each student and how best I could teach him. As soon as I had drained my cup, I began preparing some simple assignments. I worked well into the late evening by the wavering light of the lamp. Tonight even the howling of the coyotes failed to distract me.

  The week was a busy one. I arose early each morning to write assignments on the blackboard and to add last-minute ideas to the lessons that I had prepared on paper. The day was given entirely to the students. Already some of them were beginning to show abilities in one area or another. A small group was slowly emerging who would be able to take a forward step in arithmetic. Another group was ready to go on in the second primer. Two students showed real promise in art and three had musical ability.

  Daily I felt frustrated by my lack of materials for teaching. If only I had.... I often started thinking. But I didn't have, so I tried to make up for the lack with creativity.

  At the end of the classroom time. I lingered for a few moments to correct work and plan the next day, then rushed home, made my cup of tea and rested for a few moments in my overstuffed chair. All the time that I sipped, my mind refused to relax. It leaped from one idea to another, from plan to plan. As soon as my cup was empty I returned to work in the classroom, trying to put my ideas to work.

  By the end of the week I was physically weary, but I was perhaps the happiest I had ever been in my life. I had planned to work on the footstool on Saturday, but instead I asked my students if they knew of anyone with whom I could ride into town. The growing list of items that I might find to assist me in the classroom prompted this request. I dreaded another long trip to town in a bumpy wagon, but I couldn't very well hand the list over to someone else and expect him to do the shopping for me.

  To my delight, Sally Clark brought word on Friday that her folks were going to town on Saturday and would be happy to pick me up at eight o'clock the next morning.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Joint Tenants

  True to their word, the Clarks arrived at ten to eight. My list and I were ready to go. I did not plan to make a weekly trip to Lacombe, so I had tried to think of all that I might be needing in the near future.

  One of the needs came to my attention when I discovered that I was not living alone. How many other occupants the house held was still unknown to me, but it was easy to tell by the evidence that I found on several mornings that I was sharing my home with a family of mice.

  I guess the mice felt that I was the intruder; it was apparent that they assumed the entire place belonged to them.

  The first morning that I saw the evidence, I was frightened. I had never lived with mice before. What if they were to climb into my bed and nibble my fingers or, horrors of horrors, become tangled in my hair? What could I do about them? How did one go about getting rid of mice? I added mousetraps to my list, but I wasn't sure what I was to look for. I had never seen a mousetrap.

  The next morning I had found a corner nibbled from my fresh loaf of bread. Now I was angry-the nerve of the little beasts! There was no way that I was going to share my home and my food with rodents. I boldly underlined mousetraps on my list.

  Before I went to bed the next night, I placed all my food stuffs in the cupboards, out of the rodents' reach. On the fourth morning of my busy teaching week, I found evidence of the mice having romped over my dishes-right in my cupboards! I was furious and repelled. I took all of the dishes from my cupboards, washed them in hot, soapy water and scalded them with boiling water from the teakettle, all the while breathing vengeance against those nasty creatures. Indeed, something had to be done. I thought of sending a note to Mr. Laverly with one of the students who passed by his farm, but I stubbornly rejected the idea. Surely I could handle a little problem like mice.

  So, as I traveled to town on that overcast Saturday morning, sitting on a makeshift seat in the Clarks' wagon, I thought about my unwelcome tenants. After today I would be rid of them, for I planned to leave traps throughout the house. I felt no pity whatever for the creatures who would be caught in those traps.

  As soon as the Clarks dropped me off at the general store, I set to work on my list. I could find only a portion of the items that I had desired for the classroom. In a few instances I made substitutions. In many cases I was forced to do without.

  I purchased a large washtub-the biggest I could find, determined that I would have a decent soak when I took my bath.

  I carefully selected all of the food items that I felt I needed and added a few metal containers to store them in. No more would mice be sharing my loaf ' of bread while I waited for my traps to do their job.

  "Now," I said to the long-nosed clerk, "I need mousetraps -the best that you have."

  I don't know what I expected him to show me, but certainly not that little bit of wood and wire.

  "This is a mousetrap?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Is that all you have?"

&n
bsp; "What did you have in mind, ma'am?"

  "Well-I'm-I'm not sure. I've never needed-but I thought . . . How does that catch them-what holds them in? There's no cage."

  "No, ma'am." I think that he smiled, though he turned too quickly for me to be sure.

  "Why don't they run off?" I persisted.

  "They don't run off, ma'am-'cause they're dead," he answered me, his face solemn but his eyes twinkling.

  "Dead?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "What kills them?"

  "The trap, ma'am."

  I looked at the small thing, bewildered.

  He finally picked up a trap and, as though speaking to a small child, proceeded to show me.

  "You place the bait here, ma'am-just a touch. Then you pull this back and hook it, gently, like this. You place it carefully in the path you think the mouse will follow. He comes to steal the bait"- he reached out with the pencil from behind his ear-"and-."

  There was a sharp bang. and the trap sprang forward-and I backward. The pencil was snapped in the firm grip of the trap. I staggered over bails of twine that were stacked behind me on the floor and nearly lost my balance while color flooded my cheeks. The clerk bent his head down as he freed his pencil from the trap-and, I imagine, composed his face.

  "I'll take ten of them," I said with all of the dignity that I could muster.

  "Ten?" He cleared his throat and blinked. "So many?"

  "I have no idea how many mice there are."

  "One trap is usable over and over, ma'am."

  This was further news to me.

  "You just lift the wire," the clerk explained patiently, "release the dead mouse and reset."

  It sounded easy enough.

  "Fine," I said. "I'll take one."

  He put the trap with my other purchases.

  By the time the Clarks returned to pick me up, I and my new belongings were ready for the long trip home.

  There was still daylight left when we arrived home, so I started to work on the footstool. Rather than piecing material from the bits and scraps in my sewing basket, I had decided to purchase some sturdy material in town. I had even bought some batting so that the footstool would be padded.

  Humming as I sewed and tacked, I found this project challenging and gratifying. I was pleased with my first attempt as furniture-maker. I even had enough material left to make a small pillow to match the stool.

  By the time I had sorted my purchases, placing those in the schoolroom that belonged there and the others in my house, it was late and I was weary.

  I dragged my large tub into my bedroom, poured the water that I had heated and enjoyed my bath. It wasn't like our fine tub at home, but I could at least sit in it and splash the water over the rest of me.

  It had been a good week, I decided, as I crawled into bed. I felt that I had made progress in the classroom. The children were learning. I had a tub big enough for bathing, and 1-1 hadn't set the mousetrap! I climbed out of my warm bed and re-lit the lamp, burning my fingers on the still-hot chimney.

  It looked so easy when the man in the store had demonstrated it. It wasn't easy at all. I rubbed a small portion of butter on the metal bait piece, and then stretched the wire back-back. I was trying to fasten it down when-"ping"-it snapped together and flew from my hand across the floor. Shaken, I went after it, feeling as if it were capable of attacking me. Again I tried and again it snapped. The sixth attempt got my finger, and I cried out in anger and frustration. I wasn't sure what I was the most angry at-the homesteading mice or the offensive trap.

  Finally, on about the tenth try, I managed to secure the wire, and I gingerly placed the unruly bit of wood and metal on the floor by the cupboard. Eyeing its location, I decided to move it over just a bit with my foot when-"ping"-it sprang into the air. I jumped and struck my hip against the stove.

  Almost in tears, I again went through the procedure. Eventually the trap was set and placed on the ideal spot. As I inspected it now, I couldn't see any butter left on the little projection intended for the bait, but I refused to touch the thing again.

  I blew out the lamp and crawled back into bed. My finger was still smarting and my hip throbbed from its encounter with the hard iron of the stove. I snuggled under the warm quilt and tried to think of things more pleasant than mousetraps and unwelcome guests.

  I suppose that it was about one o'clock when the sharp "ping" of the trap brought me upright in my bed, staring toward the open door of my bedroom. In my drowsy state, I did not understand where the sound had come from, but I then remembered what had taken so much of my time the night before. Well, at least it had worked. Maybe now my problems with unwanted roommates would be over.

  I snuggled back down but I couldn't go to sleep. The thought of an animal out there in my kitchen, all tangled up in the metal of that trap, disturbed me. What should I do about it? Should I go and release it at once? Was it already too late? But I couldn't bring myself to face the situation by the flickering light of my lamp.

  The dawn was approaching when I finally was able to doze off.

  When I awakened again it was full daylight. At first I felt alarmed, realizing that I had slept long past my usual waking hour. Then I remembered it was Sunday and settled back to enjoy the comfort of my bed for a few more minutes. I planned a leisurely day, thankful indeed that today there would be a church service in the schoolroom. I had sent the message home with all of the pupils that I would be only too happy to share the community school with a Sunday congregation, and the service had been set for two o'clock.

  I wasn't used to an afternoon service, and it seemed a long time to wait, but at least it was something to look forward to. Surely I would be able to somehow fill the long morning hours with productive activities while I waited. I began to take a mental inventory of what I had on hand to read.

  I crawled out of bed, stretching and flexing my muscles. If I didn't lie just right on my mattress, I could wake up with some stubborn kinks. This morning I seemed to have several. I wasn't concerned. I had all morning to gradually work them out.

  I slipped on my robe and slippers and headed for my stove. I'd make the fire and start the coffee.

  In my early morning reverie, I very nearly failed to notice a small object on my floor. I was just about to lower my right foot on it when I jerked back with a gasp. My mousetrap had jumped halfway across the floor from its original position. There it lay, and securely clamped to the wood base was a limp, dead mouse.

  I shall not describe further the sight that met my eyes or my revulsion as I looked at it. My first thought was to run, but I soon stifled my panic and convinced myself that the trap and its victim could do me very little bodily harm.

  My next thought was not a welcome one-it was up to me to care for the furry corpse in my pathway. Somehow I must remove the mouse from the trap if I were to have the trap for future use, as the clerk in the store had indicated. The thought of touching it made me shudder. I couldn't. I knew I couldn't. At length I took the broom and dustpan and swept the whole thing up. Holding the dustpan at arm's length, I marched outside and across the clearing. The helpful clerk had said to simply release the dead mouse and reset the trap. How clever-and how impossible.

  I walked resolutely on, trying to keep my eyes from the contents of the dustpan. I neared the two small buildings at the far side of the clearing. Glancing furtively about to make sure that no one was watching, I headed for the one marked "Boys." I did not want to share even my outhouse with the dead mouse.

  As quickly as I could. I stepped into the building and dumped the mouse, trap and all, down the hole. I then hurried out, again glancing about as one committing a crime, and headed back to the house.

  I took a scrub pail and washed the floor where the mouse had lain, my dustpan, and even my broom; and then I began to scrub my hands. I never did succeed that morning in makng them feel really clean, so I didn't bother fixing any breakfast. Instead, I poured a cup of coffee (I didn't have to actually touch that), picked u
p my Bible and headed for the classroom. I would calm myself, read and pray, and wait for the afternoon service.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sunday Service

  Not too many had arrived at the school by two o'clock. The Petersons were the first to appear. Because the day was cloudy and cool, Lars was allowed to build a fire in the big stove.

  The Dickersons came and then the Blakes, the Johnsons and a family by the name of Thebeau. They had two teenage sons who would not be in school until after the harvest-if at all.

  Mr. Dickerson was in charge of the service. We sang several songs and read scripture. Mrs. Thebeau gave a Bible lesson for the children, then Mr. Dickerson gave some thoughts on a passage of scripture. It was not a sermon, he clarified, because he was not a preacher. He voiced some worthwhile insights, and I appreciated his direct approach. I even found myself thinking that it was a shame he was not a preacher.

  As we stood around visiting after the short service, other teams began pulling into the schoolyard. My first thought was that they had misunderstood the time for the afternoon meeting and were arriving late. What a shame!

  I glanced about me. To my surprise there was activity going on all around me in the schoolroom. The fire had been built up and a large kettle of water placed on to heat. Tables were being pushed together, items laid out upon them, and men were busy rearranging the desks. Seeing my puzzled look, Anna Peterson crossed over to me.

  "Da folks wanta meet da new teacher. Dis be gud vay, vah?"

  I was astounded. But as the afternoon went on I agreed with Anna. Yes, this was a good way. All of my students and their parents were there-except for Phillip Delaney and his parents; they, I was informed, were very sorry to miss the gathering but they were, of necessity, in Calgary for the weekend. Others from the community, though they did not have children of school age, took advantage of the opportunity to get together with the neighbors and perhaps to satisfy curiosity about the new schoolmarm. They all welcomed me heartily.