Myrtle Siebert's Blog - Posts Tagged "school"
First Steps in School
When I was a child, from birth to 9 years of age, our only neighbours were my paternal grandparents and my bachelor uncle whose house and his bunkhouse sat on one large raft with a stiffleg to the shore, only a few yards along the beach from our float. Both floathouses were attached to the beach part way up Port Neville inlet. The only child within a twenty minute boat ride away was my baby sister, Judy Lee born the previous January in 1943 meaning a regular school with a classroom and a designated teacher was never an option for me.
So it was that in September of 1944, just six weeks after my sixth birthday I began grade one. My first school experience was at home at our kitchen table, with my mother as teacher. Not in the usual manner of a mother parenting a child while supervising crayoning or singing counting and alphabet songs, but as the designated teacher of my first officially taught school lessons.
Although there had been few opportunities for socialization with other children my own age there was no doubt I was ready for school. An early learning system was not common then, even in the towns and cities. Instead I had the benefit of a loving, attentive family who had prepared me with books and crafts for my first more formal learning.
Mail and supplies were delivered to the Port Neville government dock by the Union Steamship SS Cardena every two weeks. Late in August of that first year a huge parcel of school supplies arrived from Victoria’s correspondence school. A significant event, I took great sensual pleasure in examining everything it contained. It was exciting to smell the new paper, pencils, erasers, and books that spilled out of the package. As I did at the beginning of every school year thereafter, I enjoyed handling each of the new and always changing school related items. Mom began by sharpening one of the fat red pencils with her well-worn paring knife, while I examined new crayon colours, wondered at the small metal box of paints with its own paintbrush and reviewed the possibilities through its pictures of the new-to-me books, all in anticipation of being allowed to use these wonderful precious new tools. From that day onward I looked forward with anticipation to each new chapter of my learning.
On ‘school days’ I sat up to the red laminated kitchen table, on a structure the correct thickness to lift me into the right position for writing and reading. We had tried various pillows and boxes and finally settled on the perfect arrangement. A wooden box that had come into the house the Christmas before, filled with what we knew as ‘Jap’ oranges, was placed on one of the kitchen chairs. It was my designated seat until I grew some, and then the orange box was replaced by the big blue Doctor’s book. The surface of my desk was a forerunner of Arbourite, and its edge was finished with a thick band of shiny chrome. As soon as breakfast was over, and the dishes were done, I took my place at that table.
My teacher was punctual about following the school year according to the schedule sent from Victoria, just like other children did in a ‘real school.’ We began work each morning at nine, and except for our lunchtime break, we seldom finished before three. What did happen, however, was that I sometimes worked through the lessons more quickly than the time suggested for each part of the lesson package. It meant that over the months I got ahead for my age. By the end of the second school year I had finished Grade 2, and was already working on Grade 3 lessons. In this way I edged through four grades of school in three years, meaning that when I entered Grade 5 at Rock Bay School I was a year younger than the other pupils beginning Grade 5. The age difference followed me all through school, to the point that I entered university at age sixteen.
As she was strict in maintaining the school day she was also determined to have me present myself at the table/desk properly dressed and groomed. My widow’s peak hairline has always been a particular annoyance in its desire to fall forward and over the years many techniques have been tried to tame it.
“Come on Myrtle, let me comb your hair before school.” It was half past eight on Monday morning, and my mother stood before me, armed with brush, comb, two elastics, and a bottle of green goop.
“Hop up there and I’ll get those stray bits out of your eyes,” she said. Mom was not a tall woman, barely five feet, and she found it easier to stand behind me when she did my hair, while I sat on a chair where I would wiggle less. Lately, she had taken to styling it in French braids and was currently perfecting her technique. First came the part, a straight line from my forehead down the centre of my head. It sometimes took a few tries for her to get it right, at least to her standard.
Next she gathered up a small triangle of one side of the shorter hair in front and combed some of the green jell through it. By having me tip my head back against her bosom, she could divide that hair in three and begin braiding. We both knew that this first part was the most difficult, for both of us, but also when done well, (and that meant pulled tightly) it meant the braids would stay in place and look fresh for several days.
“Owe, that hurts,” I would wail.
“Hold still now, while I get these bits behind your ears, I know it pulls, but I won’t need to do this again tomorrow. That will mean you can be ready earlier to go with your dad to meet the boat.” Tuesday was Boat Day.
Soon she was working on the other side of my head, and the whole agony began again. I breathed a sigh of relief when she was finally pulling up sections of longer hair at the back of my head, and working down to the neck. It was nearly over. Sometimes she pulled a few stray hairs while attaching the elastic at the end of each braid. My own daughters probably don’t realize that the soft, covered elastics they sometimes use to make their own ‘ponytails,’ became available long after I used such things in my hair!
“There, it wasn’t that bad this morning was it?” She was re-assuring herself I thought, but at least it was over for today, and I was ready for school.
Myrtle Siebert, February 2014
So it was that in September of 1944, just six weeks after my sixth birthday I began grade one. My first school experience was at home at our kitchen table, with my mother as teacher. Not in the usual manner of a mother parenting a child while supervising crayoning or singing counting and alphabet songs, but as the designated teacher of my first officially taught school lessons.
Although there had been few opportunities for socialization with other children my own age there was no doubt I was ready for school. An early learning system was not common then, even in the towns and cities. Instead I had the benefit of a loving, attentive family who had prepared me with books and crafts for my first more formal learning.
Mail and supplies were delivered to the Port Neville government dock by the Union Steamship SS Cardena every two weeks. Late in August of that first year a huge parcel of school supplies arrived from Victoria’s correspondence school. A significant event, I took great sensual pleasure in examining everything it contained. It was exciting to smell the new paper, pencils, erasers, and books that spilled out of the package. As I did at the beginning of every school year thereafter, I enjoyed handling each of the new and always changing school related items. Mom began by sharpening one of the fat red pencils with her well-worn paring knife, while I examined new crayon colours, wondered at the small metal box of paints with its own paintbrush and reviewed the possibilities through its pictures of the new-to-me books, all in anticipation of being allowed to use these wonderful precious new tools. From that day onward I looked forward with anticipation to each new chapter of my learning.
On ‘school days’ I sat up to the red laminated kitchen table, on a structure the correct thickness to lift me into the right position for writing and reading. We had tried various pillows and boxes and finally settled on the perfect arrangement. A wooden box that had come into the house the Christmas before, filled with what we knew as ‘Jap’ oranges, was placed on one of the kitchen chairs. It was my designated seat until I grew some, and then the orange box was replaced by the big blue Doctor’s book. The surface of my desk was a forerunner of Arbourite, and its edge was finished with a thick band of shiny chrome. As soon as breakfast was over, and the dishes were done, I took my place at that table.
My teacher was punctual about following the school year according to the schedule sent from Victoria, just like other children did in a ‘real school.’ We began work each morning at nine, and except for our lunchtime break, we seldom finished before three. What did happen, however, was that I sometimes worked through the lessons more quickly than the time suggested for each part of the lesson package. It meant that over the months I got ahead for my age. By the end of the second school year I had finished Grade 2, and was already working on Grade 3 lessons. In this way I edged through four grades of school in three years, meaning that when I entered Grade 5 at Rock Bay School I was a year younger than the other pupils beginning Grade 5. The age difference followed me all through school, to the point that I entered university at age sixteen.
As she was strict in maintaining the school day she was also determined to have me present myself at the table/desk properly dressed and groomed. My widow’s peak hairline has always been a particular annoyance in its desire to fall forward and over the years many techniques have been tried to tame it.
“Come on Myrtle, let me comb your hair before school.” It was half past eight on Monday morning, and my mother stood before me, armed with brush, comb, two elastics, and a bottle of green goop.
“Hop up there and I’ll get those stray bits out of your eyes,” she said. Mom was not a tall woman, barely five feet, and she found it easier to stand behind me when she did my hair, while I sat on a chair where I would wiggle less. Lately, she had taken to styling it in French braids and was currently perfecting her technique. First came the part, a straight line from my forehead down the centre of my head. It sometimes took a few tries for her to get it right, at least to her standard.
Next she gathered up a small triangle of one side of the shorter hair in front and combed some of the green jell through it. By having me tip my head back against her bosom, she could divide that hair in three and begin braiding. We both knew that this first part was the most difficult, for both of us, but also when done well, (and that meant pulled tightly) it meant the braids would stay in place and look fresh for several days.
“Owe, that hurts,” I would wail.
“Hold still now, while I get these bits behind your ears, I know it pulls, but I won’t need to do this again tomorrow. That will mean you can be ready earlier to go with your dad to meet the boat.” Tuesday was Boat Day.
Soon she was working on the other side of my head, and the whole agony began again. I breathed a sigh of relief when she was finally pulling up sections of longer hair at the back of my head, and working down to the neck. It was nearly over. Sometimes she pulled a few stray hairs while attaching the elastic at the end of each braid. My own daughters probably don’t realize that the soft, covered elastics they sometimes use to make their own ‘ponytails,’ became available long after I used such things in my hair!
“There, it wasn’t that bad this morning was it?” She was re-assuring herself I thought, but at least it was over for today, and I was ready for school.
Myrtle Siebert, February 2014
More on Learning to Write
When each unit of work was complete I felt great satisfaction watching the teacher, my mother, address a returning envelope:
Elementary Correspondence School, Parliament Buildings, Victoria, B.C.
Mom eventually taught me to write the address, but first she taught me to print. She showed me how to hold the fat, red pencil she had whittled to a point, using her whetstone-honed paring knife. The thick, soft lead required frequent sharpening as I practiced the steps, according to her instruction. The blank paper I used was a pale oatmeal colour with a characteristic pulpy texture. My practice, combined with her persistence, proved fruitful: I slowly learned to correctly shape the letters of the alphabet. Then, when I could form the letters more or less consistently, she promoted me to working on paper with lines.
Although stiff and rough, this new paper had alternate solid and dotted lines. It allowed a pupil to more accurately establish the correct height for each letter. Capital letters were printed two spaces high, but the smaller letters, the ones without a ‘leg’ going either up or down, required only one space. Teachers began using terms such as ‘upper case’ and ‘lower case’ long after I had learned to write.
For practice, Mom assigned printing of a whole row of one capital letter, and then a whole row of that same letter in the non-capitalized form. If some of my shapes were a bit ragged, I could try another row, following a tried and true adage, “Practice makes perfect.” I’m not as sure about that as I may have been then. Allowing one day for learning each letter of the alphabet, meant my perfecting the printing of all 26 characters took weeks of dedicated effort.
When I had mastered the shaping and heights of each letter, my next writing lesson consisted of printing within the lines on standard lined paper, without the dots. We called this smoother paper ‘foolscap’, and the resulting letters were considerably smaller.
I had barely perfected the forming of printed words when my mother insisted that I begin ‘writing.’ Since that early time I have never really stopped doing it. During my school day the practice of writing sometimes had a greater purpose than simply perfecting the forming of the letters and words. Although our contact with other people was rare, and always cause for celebration of some sort, Mom was also teaching me the importance of etiquette, and that included creating my own “thank you” notes. After each Christmas and birthday, the requisite personal letters of thanks were sent.
So began a lifelong practice of writing letters. To this day, the habit continues. I still enjoy writing and sending a hand written and addressed, stamped letter, or card. With determination I attempt to make time to do it, because I know that in our busy email and text-message entrusted lives, the infrequent arrival of a “real letter” will add a bright spot to the recipient’s day.
By third grade I was considered to be ready to write script, and the esteemed Mr. MacLean entered my life. His penmanship methods were taught to all pupils in British Columbia from the 1920s to 1960s. I suppose the goal was for all schoolchildren to emerge from Grade 8 with uniformly legible handwriting. It would have been a miracle had it happened so easily. I am apparently one of the system’s failures.
Marching across the top of every blackboard in BC schools was Mr. MacLean’s version of both the large and small letters. I first observed this when I began school at Rock Bay. The Elementary Correspondence School had established a strict MacLean system for answers to the lessons. As pupils, and for every subject, we were required to write out our answers, in full sentence form, once for practice, and then rewritten in our best handwriting. The latter was submitted by mail for correction - and handwriting counted! As an early-developing writer, my handwriting met the expected standard. It no longer does.
My mother also taught me most of what I know of grammar and spelling. My spelling is still not consistently accurate. Even during high school when a teacher attempted instruction on the parts of speech, and offered examples of the rules for their use, my thoughts returned to the little rhymes and songs Mom had learned when she was a child at school. There was a light-hearted common sense about them, as long as you could remember the rhyming words, and it seemed so much less complicated than the explanations in the grammar textbook.
Among the songs she taught me was one about “a, e, i, o, u.” There were spelling rhymes too. “I before e, except after c,” has served me well when writing cheques to The Receiver General of Canada. I’ve since learned that Spell-check is dependable only if I am able to program the computer to acknowledge the appropriate version of the English language. Additionally the program does not correct for word usage. So, like many writers, I’m still learning to spell.
My apprenticeship in writing has taken me from learning my letters in Mom’s stuffy floathouse kitchen, to creating essays in high school, producing university term reports, formulating policy books, revising and initiating the writing of high school textbooks, compiling family history, and now writing memoir. Seventy years later I’m still learning to write. This creative practice called writing is truly the ultimate challenge.
Elementary Correspondence School, Parliament Buildings, Victoria, B.C.
Mom eventually taught me to write the address, but first she taught me to print. She showed me how to hold the fat, red pencil she had whittled to a point, using her whetstone-honed paring knife. The thick, soft lead required frequent sharpening as I practiced the steps, according to her instruction. The blank paper I used was a pale oatmeal colour with a characteristic pulpy texture. My practice, combined with her persistence, proved fruitful: I slowly learned to correctly shape the letters of the alphabet. Then, when I could form the letters more or less consistently, she promoted me to working on paper with lines.
Although stiff and rough, this new paper had alternate solid and dotted lines. It allowed a pupil to more accurately establish the correct height for each letter. Capital letters were printed two spaces high, but the smaller letters, the ones without a ‘leg’ going either up or down, required only one space. Teachers began using terms such as ‘upper case’ and ‘lower case’ long after I had learned to write.
For practice, Mom assigned printing of a whole row of one capital letter, and then a whole row of that same letter in the non-capitalized form. If some of my shapes were a bit ragged, I could try another row, following a tried and true adage, “Practice makes perfect.” I’m not as sure about that as I may have been then. Allowing one day for learning each letter of the alphabet, meant my perfecting the printing of all 26 characters took weeks of dedicated effort.
When I had mastered the shaping and heights of each letter, my next writing lesson consisted of printing within the lines on standard lined paper, without the dots. We called this smoother paper ‘foolscap’, and the resulting letters were considerably smaller.
I had barely perfected the forming of printed words when my mother insisted that I begin ‘writing.’ Since that early time I have never really stopped doing it. During my school day the practice of writing sometimes had a greater purpose than simply perfecting the forming of the letters and words. Although our contact with other people was rare, and always cause for celebration of some sort, Mom was also teaching me the importance of etiquette, and that included creating my own “thank you” notes. After each Christmas and birthday, the requisite personal letters of thanks were sent.
So began a lifelong practice of writing letters. To this day, the habit continues. I still enjoy writing and sending a hand written and addressed, stamped letter, or card. With determination I attempt to make time to do it, because I know that in our busy email and text-message entrusted lives, the infrequent arrival of a “real letter” will add a bright spot to the recipient’s day.
By third grade I was considered to be ready to write script, and the esteemed Mr. MacLean entered my life. His penmanship methods were taught to all pupils in British Columbia from the 1920s to 1960s. I suppose the goal was for all schoolchildren to emerge from Grade 8 with uniformly legible handwriting. It would have been a miracle had it happened so easily. I am apparently one of the system’s failures.
Marching across the top of every blackboard in BC schools was Mr. MacLean’s version of both the large and small letters. I first observed this when I began school at Rock Bay. The Elementary Correspondence School had established a strict MacLean system for answers to the lessons. As pupils, and for every subject, we were required to write out our answers, in full sentence form, once for practice, and then rewritten in our best handwriting. The latter was submitted by mail for correction - and handwriting counted! As an early-developing writer, my handwriting met the expected standard. It no longer does.
My mother also taught me most of what I know of grammar and spelling. My spelling is still not consistently accurate. Even during high school when a teacher attempted instruction on the parts of speech, and offered examples of the rules for their use, my thoughts returned to the little rhymes and songs Mom had learned when she was a child at school. There was a light-hearted common sense about them, as long as you could remember the rhyming words, and it seemed so much less complicated than the explanations in the grammar textbook.
Among the songs she taught me was one about “a, e, i, o, u.” There were spelling rhymes too. “I before e, except after c,” has served me well when writing cheques to The Receiver General of Canada. I’ve since learned that Spell-check is dependable only if I am able to program the computer to acknowledge the appropriate version of the English language. Additionally the program does not correct for word usage. So, like many writers, I’m still learning to spell.
My apprenticeship in writing has taken me from learning my letters in Mom’s stuffy floathouse kitchen, to creating essays in high school, producing university term reports, formulating policy books, revising and initiating the writing of high school textbooks, compiling family history, and now writing memoir. Seventy years later I’m still learning to write. This creative practice called writing is truly the ultimate challenge.
