School Days in the Old South

By Elton Camp

Milas saw value in education. Through the years, he’d wanted his children to
attend school as long as it didn’t unduly take them from their work in the field. However,
he left it to them to get there. They could then learn or not as they chose, but he intended
to see that they got the opportunity.

Schools of that time were far different from today. The boys always sat on one
side of the room and the girls on the other. Punishments were immediate and for a
variety of reasons. The teacher used a small, flat stick to hit the palms or knuckles of any
student who didn’t listen, answered incorrectly, or misbehaved. More severe misconduct
brought whacks of a paddle across the rear. As a punishment for talking during lessons, a
boy might be forced to sit on the girls’ side or a girl on the boys’ side. It was a
significant embarrassment.

“Paw, th’ teach’r whopped me t’day ’n’ I warn’t doin’ nothin,’ complained a
scholar when he reached home.

The usual reaction was “No dou’t y’u needed hit. Heer’s ’nother un to go wif
hit.”

The parent took the complainer to the woodshed for more whacks. The punished
child was in trouble, not the teacher. Although poorly paid, the teachers were generally
respected and their decisions unquestioned by parents.

Lessons were provided in spelling, math, and science. Emphasis on penmanship

resulted in beautiful script. Slates with chalk were reusable and so substituted for costly
paper and pencil. Homework was rarely given. Children had chores to do when they got
home.

Friday afternoon usually brought a spelling bee. Competing teams, often boys
against girls, stood at opposite side of the room. Any student who misspelled a word had
to sit down. Finally it got down to one on a side. Back and forth flew the words until
one student emerged victorious. The only reward was praise from the teacher and
admiration from peers.

Only Albert had failed to learn. His schooling ended during Miranda’s lifetime.
With increasing frustration and little comprehension, he attended through the third grade
but never managed to read or write. Mathematics eluded his grasp.

He came to love western adventure novels, but had to depend upon someone else
to read them to him.
 Howard recalled, “When I read to him from Zane Grey, his face showed intense
excitement. It was real to him. Albert never got enough and would’ve listened for hours
if I’d been willing.”

“Mr. Camp,” the young teacher at the one-room school had explained,
“Somethin’s not jest right wif’ Albert. I don’t know anythin’ I kin do t’ help.”

“Special education” might have benefited him, but that was decades in the future.
He had little prospect beyond a lifetime of manual labor. So it proved to be.

As an adult, Albert developed a different explanation that spared him humiliation.

He related it anytime he could get a family member to listen.

“Paw made me drap outer school so’s he kould do fer th’ y’nger uns. I never got
a chanct t’ get a education. Hit ain’t my fault. Hit ain’t fare.”

Bertha and Mamie went through the sixth grade which adequately equipped them
with the necessary skills of “readin’, ’ritin’, an’ ’thmetic.” Bertha inherited her father’s
business ability. Mamie was a hard worker at home. She did a commendable job of
rearing her three children, Beamon, Leston, and Vada, after Ude abandoned his family.

As long as the family lived in the country and farmed, the day began shortly after
dawn. The children “did the thangs,” as chores were described, attended school, and
returned for more work around home.

“Git on t’ school every day lest I tell y’u otherwise,” were Milas’ standing
instructions.

No school bus operated. Few country people had cars, but even those who did
never considered driving children to school. Youngsters walked, hot or cold, rain, or
shine.

“September gales” presented wind and pouring rain to would-be scholars. These
were from hurricanes that made their way into the Gulf of Mexico and weakened as they
spread north over land. Nobody knew about such things in those days. Weather
forecasting with radar, storm planes, and satellite images hadn’t even been imagined.

The Almanac provided long-range forecasts about weather, but phrased them in
such a manner as to be open to interpretation. People tended to remember the times it
was correct and to forget its errors. A farmer might learn that when clouds appeared over
his neighbor’s barn, it was likely to rain. As soon as one could see enough blue sky “to
make kitten britches,” the rain was ending. When rain fell while the sun was shining, all
agreed, “The devil’s beatin’ his wife.” That’s about as far as local weather knowledge
went.
 “Do we half t’ go t’ school t’day, paw?” Howard whined. “Hit’s raining
som’thin’ fierce.”

Heavy clouds made the day dark and gloomy. Rain rocketed to the earth, but at a
sharp angle. Trees bent in response to the strong south wind. The roadbed was ankle
deep in soft, slick mud. Ditches overflowed to leave only a narrow path in places. Low
spots in the road were knee-deep in murky, brown water. A rain of “forty days and forty
nights” seemed possible to the younger children.

“Git on ’n’ don’t b’ late,” he responded.

Leamon, Howard, Leon, and Birdie bundled up as best they could and trudged in
the direction of school. Despite the harsh conditions, the two younger boys paused along
the way to splash in puddles with their bare feet. They’d be soaked by the time they
reached school, so it didn’t matter if they had a bit of fun. Leamon maintained a reserve
of dignity in keeping with his role as the oldest brother still at home. Birdie was proud of
her yellow dress and wanted to protect it. She tightly grasped Leamon’s hand to keep
from slipping.

“Why don’t you two cut it out?” Leamon asked his brothers. “You know paw
wouldn’t like you to act up like that. Try to be civilized.”

Leamon had begun to make a determined effort to avoid use of the country words
and expressions of his upbringing. The southern mountain dialect had its roots in the
Elizabethan period in England. The Anglo-Saxon origins of many people in north
Alabama resulted in word choice and pronunciation that represented a more “pure”
version of English. Yet it wasn’t “standard” English. Leamon meant to rise above his
origins. In fact, as they matured, all in the family except Belle slowly abandoned much
of the dialect.

Heavy snow didn’t fall frequently in north Alabama, but when it did,
schoolchildren faced an even harder challenge. Schools never dismissed because of
weather. Slipping and sliding, off went Milas’ brood to school.

“Hey, Leamon, looky here,” Howard called out mischievously. His older brother
turned just in time to receive a wet snowball in his face.

“Wait ‘till I get my hands on you. I’ll make you sorry.”

“I ain’t afeared o’ you.”

The younger boy ran ahead to stay out of range of his stronger brother. He saw
no reason to invite retaliation by making himself too easily available.
 As a girl, plus being Belle’s child, Birdie was usually exempt from any rough
housing. She might tell on them, and then there’d be the devil to pay. They didn’t want
to face Belle’s wrath. It was best to leave Birdie alone.

The schoolhouse had four classrooms. The floors were plank and oiled rather
than painted. Each room had a cloakroom at the back with an entrance at each end. In
the past, boys had used one door and girls the other. That custom had fallen into disuse.
The small room was where the children hung coats not needed on a particular day, as
well as their syrup buckets that served as dinner pails. Pegs inserted into the cloakroom
wall substituted for hooks. A shelf above the pegs was for storage of the dinner pails. A
blackboard, with chalk tray, ran across the front of the room. Two outhouses stood well
into the woods behind the school. One was for boys and the other for girls. Both reeked
of excrement and urine.

The Schoolhouse

Water was obtained from a hand-dug well in front of the school. It had a frame
with a hinged top covering it. A roof provided additional protection. A windlass with
rope was used to lower and raise the bucket. As one of the older boys, Leamon often
drew the water.

A pot-bellied wood stove stood in the center of each classroom for winter use.
Firing them was the duty of each of the teachers. Neither janitor nor principal were
provided. They arrived early enough to have a roaring fire going by the time the children
appeared. With total lack of insulation and drafty windows, the heat was ineffective
beyond about ten feet all around the stove. Children sitting too close to the stove burned
up; those too far away froze. On really cold days, the water might freeze in the water
bucket. The older boys kept wood brought in throughout the day. Whatever winter
garments the children had, they often wore all day.

“Hit’s cold ez a witches hart ’n heer,” Leon complained. “I wish somebody’d

stoke up th’ far.” After several hours, the stoves glowed red, but it was too near the end
of the school day to be of much benefit.

Recess and lunchtime were favorite periods for the children. If the weather
permitted, they remained outside. No school had playground equipment such as slides,
seesaws, and monkey bars, but the youngsters had a fine time with improvised activities.
 With two grades to a room, the school went all the way through the eighth grade.
Three of the teachers were men. The other, Miss Gunnels, was a thirty something
spinster who had lived in the community all her life.

“Bless her heart, she’s so stuck on learning thet nobody kin stand her,” one lady
in the community commented to another. The most horrible things could be said by one
woman about another as long as the slander was preceded with the canceling expression,
“Bless her heart.”

Miss Gunnels Teaching Her Students

Miss Gunnels’ terrible experience at the school will be the subject of a separate
short story to appear later.