3 minute read
What a Difference a Day Makes
Sharon J Hamilton
Without Anne of Green Gables I would never have made it through my first year of teaching. I was in a one-room eight-grade schoolhouse, Laramie School, roughly three miles north of St. Adolphe. It was a charming little school, with a pump to provide water in above freezing weather, a parent to bring a couple of gallons of water every day in winter, and an outhouse in the middle of the back playground all year long. The front playground boasted a swing, which, at eighteen years of age, I used to swing on after school on warm days, after the students had left and before my ride to my home in St. Vital arrived. That autumn of 1963 had been warm and sunny and I had enjoyed that brief swing almost every afternoon. I had at least one student in every grade and their growing minds kept me busy and focused every moment of every day. The morning of November 22 had been like most, beginning with a story for everyone and then arithmetic in every grade, followed by some groupings for social studies and science, while the younger students had some physical activities. Most students stayed for lunch, during which they could play outside or stay in and talk. All had played outside, giving me some needed time to organize the afternoon’s activities.
A knock on the door interrupted any planning I had begun. The Laramees lived on the farm closest to the school, four of them in four different grades, and always went home for lunch. Robert, in grade three, came in holding a radio, looking wide-eyed and somehow bigger than his size. “President Kennedy’s been shot.” His older sister, Margaret, in grade seven, told me in solemn tones that her parents were giving the radio to the school to keep, because we should know what is going on in the world while we are in school. The rest of the students followed them in and we sat and listened for most of the rest of the afternoon. Only after President Kennedy was pronounced dead did we break our focus on the news and turn it to the meaning of the news. All eyes were on me, open, large, some with tears, all of them solemn and intense. Nobody spoke. They were all waiting for me to know and share the meaning of what had happened. In that moment, I realized more fully than ever before that we could make meaning of this cataclysmic event only if we did it together. Almost effortlessly, the dialogue began, as some students asked questions, others tried to answer, still others began to cry. Brothers comforted sisters, neighbouring children comforted each other, and we became a unit. I’m writing this on March 13, 2020, the day after the first three Covid-19 cases in the province were declared, arts and cultural events cancelled and institutions shut down, and the province began to come together in unity to understand and contain the spread of this new cataclysm invading our lives.
I didn’t swing that afternoon while waiting for my ride. I sat on the front stoop of the schoolhouse and remembered the twelve pairs of sad eyes focussed on me all afternoon. That day we could touch and hug and hold hands. Today, we cannot.
In the midst of this on-again off-again world, Public Relations is still promoting the printing of a small book of Teachers Memories. We write as students, teachers, teacher's children, even stories from our parents...whatever is our most interesting and memorable school related event. We were, and are, significant folk. If we do not write these stories down, they will be lost forever. Hopefully, each KIT will feature one “Memory.” The submissions will go into our Website for viewing, then to eventual printing and publication. Three hundred words, 500 words, whatever, don’t feel constrained. Encourage a colleague. Some are coming to our office longhand. That’s great.
Email office@rtam.mb.ca, or mail to RTAM, 206-1555 St. James St., Winnipeg, R3H 1B5
We need your help. Try hard. Written May 12, 2020, 150 years since the “birth” of our province.
