The relatives in my family, the generations of the early 1900s, were often lacking in education. The schoolhouses of the time were built only after enough settlers arrived in the region, with sufficient children to warrant finding a teacher.
Some mothers educated their own children and perhaps those of the immediate neighbours. Sometimes the hiring of a teacher involved providing housing for her as well. One historical house we toured was hosted by an interpreter, who told us that the two daughters of the family shared their bedroom with the female teacher.
The room wasn’t much larger than the double bed. The “closet” consisted of a few pegs behind the door and a trunk shoved under the bed with the chamber pot.
My grandmother talked about her early school days. She and her two brothers walked a two-mile stretch to the nearest school. On one occasion they decided to take a shortcut, crawling through the neighbour’s wire fencing. They neglected to check for the bull that inhabited the field. As they fled, they hid in a granary, the only building in close proximity.
Unfortunately all three kids were just recovering from whooping cough. The running and the dusty interior of the small building reactivated the coughing and all three soon landed back in bed.
Grandma said that there was no immunization in those early years. Whatever diseases were circulating in the community were sure to land on their doorstep. She recalled that they had diphtheria one winter and of course measles which seemed to reappear regularly.
Their parents were early homesteaders and had already lost a young son back in Ontario. All the hard work and deprivation took its toll. Two more sons died on that Prairie farm.
Grandma said she didn’t get much farther than Grade 3. She was sick so often and missed a lot of her schooling. Later when her brothers were ailing she was needed at home. She always spoke with regret that she hadn’t helped her mother more.
Much of her practical training was received at home. She made most of her own clothing and patched and repaired seams with the old Singer treadle sewing machine. She made her own bread, pastries and even produced a selection of cheeses. Everything considered edible was canned, pickled or cooked for immediate consumption.
Despite her lack of education she was often called on in the role of what is now home care. She worked with new moms doing child care instruction and keeping house until the mom’s strength returned.
My father-in-law also had only Grade 3 or so in formal education. He was raised on a homestead in the Brandon, Man. area. Being the youngest of a large family, he was expected to stay at home and care for the aging parents. He continued to farm there, raising two children on his own. Years later he remarried, moving his family to Alberta. They took over a general store in tiny Orion in southern Alberta, where he ran the post office, the telephone exchange and drove a school bus.
After a few years the family relocated to Olds, where Jimmy purchased a quarter section of land and returned to farming, his heart’s desire. When I met him he had slowed to a relaxed pace and moseyed through life in style.
My parents both completed Grade 8 in their respective communities. Mom attended the same school at Gladys that grandma had attended. The family had moved kitty-corner to the school and mom had a quick walk.
Dad attended school in Fox Valley, Sask. He rode a horse from their patch of land. He said once that it only produced thistles, rocks and buffalo chips. After his mother died, the family moved into town and a better life.
The teachers in town were young single women as a rule, or occasionally older widows. He spoke with admiration of a Miss Fowler, who taught her students to recite great reams of poetry, long sagas like the tale of Moses’ life and times.
He retained a memory for details and a love of storytelling. We gave him a journal in the last few years of his life. He resisted writing in it for awhile. The entries we did find spoke of admiration of his teachers and his joy of learning, even though it was cut short.
– Joyce Hoey is a longtime Gazette columnist
