Mom's School Story

The fall after Mom graduated from Bloomfield High School, she got her first teaching job at a one room school in Knox County. She taught there for two years in the early 1950s, marrying my dad in December of the second year, and joining him on his army base when the school year ended in May.

When I was in Junior High, Mom started back to college to get her teaching degree, finally graduating while I was in college.

As I was going through some of Mom and Dad’s old photos and documents recently, I found a couple of stories—the rough drafts, really—that Mom had written for one of her college classes. Now, as schools all across Nebraska are starting in the week to come, I think it is fitting for me to include the following story in my blog.

So, here is Mom’s autobiographical story about a young, resourceful, one room school teacher who had to deal with a scary situation. 

The young teacher struggled up the hill with the wastebaskets of trash, grumbling to herself. “It’s been a month now that Homer’s promised me a trash barrel; I wonder when I’ll ever get it. I hope the wind doesn’t come up any stronger, because I surely don’t want a fire like Lillie Ann had last week. I can’t imagine how she could burn off 25 acres of oat stubble behind her school and not notice.”

The School

 

The grass of the school ground was brown and dry. It waved gently back and forth, tickling her legs as she walked. Setting down the baskets, she surveyed the scene. To the north of the one acre school plot was a shelter belt, where the birds were singing a farewell song as they prepared to fly south for the winter. The thorny locust and Russian olive trees were shedding their leaves, making a carpet between the rows of trees. The wind whispered softly through the blue spruce and cedar trees.

To the east she noticed that the Broders had been doing some fall plowing—it smelled so good. “Well, if I did have a grass fire, that plowed ground would help stop it—but the shelter belt could sure go fast. Too bad we haven’t had any fall rains this year. Every day someone has a grass fire.

“I wonder why I’m so terrified at the thought of fire? Must be because of the time the basement hot water heater flared up when Mom tried to light it. That really scared me—all I could see were the flames shooting out. I remember she called up for me to throw her the salt box, and when the salt didn’t stop the fire, she told me to ‘Call somebody!’ How was I to know she meant to call a neighbor? My sister, Ellen, really thought it was funny ‘cause I called the fire department, but that was quicker than trying to find a neighbor at home.”

A rabbit ran under the coal shed, startling her from her thoughts.

“I’d better get started burning this trash, or I’ll never get home tonight.” Carefully, she piled the papers in the bare spot where the barrel once sat, and lit them. Then, leaning against the girls’ outhouse, she watched the blaze so that the dry grass of the schoolyard didn’t catch fire.

Thinking back to the day just past, she smiled to think of five year old Elaine, who had brought her a wiggly black caterpillar, saying, “Here’s one of your friends, Miss Wegner.” Earlier in the month, the teacher had chided the students for stepping on the caterpillars, and there had been an impromptu science lesson about caterpillars, cocoons, and butterflies. Apparently, at least one child had gotten the message.

Most of the students: some of them were Broders kids.

 

Suddenly, she looked at the fire. It was licking at the dry grass of the school ground! Terrified, she wondered what to do. There was no phone at the school, and the closest farm was half a mile away.

Then she noticed the five foot long piece of bridge plank which covered the mud hole in front of the outhouse door. Finding strength she didn’t know she possessed, she swung the plank again and again, beating out the fire. When the flames were finally smothered, she collapsed to the ground in exhaustion. “How could the fire get out of control so quickly?” she thought. “I only glanced away for a minute.”

Regaining her composure, she got up and walked to the schoolhouse to lock up. She decided she’d correct papers at home that night, as she was too overwrought to do it then.

Meanwhile, Delbert and Larry Broders had been tinkering with the tractor and cleaning the plowshares as they were finishing plowing. Larry glanced toward the school and said, “Say, Delbert, looks like the teacher’s got herself a fire.”

Wiping his forehead with his handkerchief, Delbert watched the smoke curl up and over the outhouse. “Suppose we should go see if she needs any help? There’s no well on the school ground anymore. Say, look at that! She’s pounding the fire out with a plank! She must be stronger than she looks.”

As they stood watching the struggling woman across the field, it became apparent to them that she was getting control of the fire. “Guess we could drive past there," said Larry.

“Let’s go then,” answered Delbert. So they got into their pickup and drove slowly toward the school.

As the teacher walked to her car, the Broders brothers stopped by. “We saw you had a fire,” said Delbert, as he spit tobacco on the roadside. “We watched and saw that you had gotten it out, so we didn’t come over then.”

Now Miss Wegner felt exasperated as well as exhausted. Here were two people from the school district, with children in the school, but they had just watched her fight the fire from a distance, rather than coming to help.

She smiled sweetly and said, “I guess all that matters is that it’s out.” Then she slowly climbed into her car, waved goodbye, and drove home.

--LaRae M. (Wegner) Vawser

The teacher, still a teenager herself

God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.

 Psalm 46:1