My Early School Days

Due to ill health I did not start school until I was seven or eight years old. My main illness was asthma.

My first school teacher was a pretty, young, slender brunette lady. She was kind and helpful. With her smile and calm manner I wanted to please her which resulted in my learning the ABC's and soon after how to make alphabet letters and to count. Reading, writing and arithmetic had formerly been taught by the tune of the hickory stick, not the modern joy stick. My teacher was my first love. I adored her!

But tragedy struck! She died during the summer following my first year of schooling. I was devastated. Her funeral was the first one that I remember attending. My eyes were filled with tears and my heart was saddened. My mind was filled with -- why, why?

Strict discipline was the rule of the teachers that was followed. Reading, writing, and arithmetic were taught to the tune of the hickory stick. The big bullwhip hanging behind the school teacher's desk was necessary to control one or two of the eighth grade boys or young men twenty-one years old. The small wood frame, one room school house at Lambdin, one and a half miles from my home had survived many years of unruly school children ranging in age from 6 to 21 years. The grades taught were one through eighth. The teachers had ranged from big burly men to the petite lady of whom I was very fond.

There were moments when the pupils were left alone. It was during those periods that the unruly pupils splattered dthe ceiling with spitballs of chewed paper. I have always marveled how those unsightly, messy wads of paper could stick to their places without the benefit of glue.

The recess periods meant for relaxation, play and enjoyment were sometimes marred by stressful scenes or fights. The longer recess time at noon was an opportunity for the bigger boys to stray from the school grounds and engage in a squabble. One method of settling an argument was the "crossing of the dare line". This was a line drawn in the dirt with a stick. The opponents lined up on opposite sides of the line. Their opponent was dared to cross the line. The bravest one to cross would be confronted by his feuding partner usually with clenched fists and the fight was on.

At this school no organized or supervised games were available. Baseball, football, soft ball, or basketball games were unknown. One dangerous game commonly played was tin can hockey. Dangerous because there was no telling where the bent up tin can when clobbered with a wooden club would land. An example of this was the scar that my oldest brother had on his nose the rest of his life after being hit by a sharp, dented tin can.

An incident that I shall always remember occurred on my way home from school with a neighborhood boy. Blue eyes was larger than me. For some reason he started to attack me with closed fist. I quickly jerked my left arm upward to cover my face. The one-half gallon tin pail provided for my lunch had a bail which secured the lunch bucket to my arm just above my elbow. My quick defensive action caused the bucket to strike Blue Eyes underneath his right jaw. The blow must have hit a nerve. He fell flat at my feet. I had made a knockout accidentally. That KO settled the rest of the fight.

At school it was a common practice for the bigger boys to play pranks. Usually their victims were defenseless smaller boys (e.g. 4th graders). One big eighth grader knew I was wild about spotted ponies. Willie had a beautiful spotted pony. I begged for a ride. "Okay, Harold. You can earn a ride and I will give you a dime to boot if you will do something for me." "A dime and a pony ride, you promise?" I was in seventh heaven. "Okay, I'll do it," I agreed. "What do I have to do?" The big bully in his twentieth year said, "You promised. Now if you don't do it you will be the most sorrowful kid in this school! No getting out of it now! Understand?" I quivered with fright but I had no yellow streaks. I was scared! Willie explained, "At recess while the girls are playing I want you to run behind Nellie and jerk her dress up so I can see the color of her panties. That's all!" That shouldn't be too hard to do I thought. Tomorrow I'll have a dime to spend and on Saturday, a long ride on a spotted pony. At the next recess period I found the opportunity to carry out my promise. Nellie's panties were bright red! The redness didn't end there. Nellie told the teacher of my weird behavior. Immediately I received the first and only licking by an educator. The news got to my parents. Two more blistering whippings at home made my bottom apple red and sore. It was not comfortable to sit down. My face was reddened when I learned that Willie had quit school at the end of that Friday the 13th afternoon. A few days later Willie was caught and jailed for burglary. Crime doesn't pay! Neither do criminals! No dime and no pony ride!

During my fifth year of grammar school some exciting experiences occurred. This was a period of time that community school activities brought the families of the school district together in social events such as box supper, pie suppers, and spelling bees. My father coached me at home in spelling and arithmetic times tables. I prided myself that in spelling bees I could successfully compete with the eighth graders. Another interruption came that year when my parents decided to move from our Oklahoma farm to an Iowa farm. The move took place in March. This meant a change in schools, teachers, and unfamiliar schoolmates.

During my seventh grade year a school nurse came to my school to check on the health of the pupils. She discovered I had 20/20 vision in my right eye, but was practically blind in my left eye. The optician discovered I had severe astigmatism and a dark spot on my left retina for which there was no cure except spectacles with a corrective lens for the astigmatism. I had always known my left eye was much weaker that my right one, but reasoned my right arm was stronger than my left arm, so I was right-handed and right-eyed!

While studying geography of the Pacific Northwestern United States the photograph of Mt. Hood in Oregon struck me like a strong magnet. I decided then and there that one day I would see this gorgeous mountain peak with a personal close-up view. This occurred six years later. Mt. Hood has had a magnetic pull on me from the time I viewed the photograph. I have felt a kinship to the mountain all the rest of my life!

My educational pursuits seemed to be a series of interruptions and struggles. After I had passed the eighth grade, my father instructed me to repeat the eighth grade! I left home each morning with my two younger sisters and a younger brother. Instead of going back to West Side Grammar School I went to Goldfield High School. About three months later my father met the West Side Grammar School teacher who asked my Dad, "How does Harold like high school?" "High school!" he snorted. "I thought Harold was still in the eighth grade. I wanted him to repeat because I need his help with the harvest!" That afternoon at home my father greeted me with "Hello there, high school boy. I guess you know you will have to miss school during corn harvest." During the next two months I went to school on days that were too stormy to work in the corn fields. At night after a long day of corn field harvest I tried to keep up my school assignments. Winter came. I could attend full-time. March winds blew in bad news for me. My parents announced a move to another town, to another school district, to another problem which I turned into an opportunity! My algebra and English teacher was lodging and have her meals provided at the dairyman's home. She guided me through Algebra and English by giving me special projects.

I was small and mighty. My strong and swift actions rewarded me with success in many stressful situations. My small size seemed always to invite competition from larger boys. There is a bully leader in every school. The big, Danish bully and I had led the sprinting group of classmates into the gym. We were first in and out of the shower. To test me, the big Dane took a swing at me. I ducked then came up with a left-hand blow to his protruding jaw. He lost his balance on the wet, soapy floor and fell flat on his back just at the moment the other runners appeared. Quickly they shouted, "Harold is the feather-weight champion of Goldfield High School. Accidents do occur.

Another interruption came at the end of 10th grade. In late February of that year our family moved back to my father's Oklahoma farm. There was not room for me and the rest of my family in our 1918 Model T Ford. I tell the story of what happened then in "Smuggled".

© Copyright 1997 Harold Wm. Wood

This page is maintained by Dr. Wood's son, Harold W. Wood, Jr., of Visalia, California.
My E-mail address is: harold@planetaryexploration.net

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