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| Story ID: | 483 |
| Written by: | Wanda Molsberry Bates (bio, contact, other stories) |
| Story type: | Serial Fiction |
| Writers Conference: | Three Years In a Teacherage |
| Location: | Greeneville Township near Spirit Lake Iowa USA |
| Year: | 1935 |
| Person: | Wanda Molsberry Bates |
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"Three Years In a Teacherage" is part of a 9 chapter serial fiction piece written by Wanda Molsberry Bates. To see all chapters, please select this link - Three Years In a Teacherage . I was nineteen that spring when I came up from college to apply for the job. L. P. Ainsworth, the dapper little man who was Superintendent of the school, met me at the bus station in Blue Lake. He wore a gray, pin-striped suit, and his pale hair was carefully parted in the middle and slicked back away from a small face whose narrow forehead and unbelievably blue eyes gave him an almost girlish appearance. We had gone scarcely a mile before I heard about his wife (whom he never called anything but “the missus”) and his little boy, Greg, whom he idolized. I also learned early that he had little regard for the English language, for he told me that he had been worried about possibly being late to meet the bus and he would have been greatly “chargrined” if that had happened. We had not gone another mile before he told me that he hoped I had not been “misconfused” by his letter quoting a salary of $57.50 per month, for actually $10 of it would be deducted for rent for living space in a house called a teacherage where I would stay. We turned left off the main highway and drove north through flat farmland. He named the owners of the farms along the way, and after awhile he pulled into a rutted lane which led up to the yard of one of them. “This is the Cal Geis place,” he said. “Cal is president of the school board and a pretty important man around here. I might as well tell you though,” and he hissed the words out of the corner of his mouth (for what reason I couldn’t understand for there was no one else to hear), “his kids aren’t very smart.” Stopping the little car near the back door of the farm house, he hopped out and opened the door for me. The screen door of the house opened and a heavy woman in a faded smock swayed down the back steps. “Hi, ya, L. P.,” she said. “I see you’ve brought the teacher.” As he introduced us, she grasped my hand in her strong right one and with the other pushed back a lock of stringy, graying hair. “My, the teachers is lookin’ younger every year,” she said, and then added, with a chuckle, “Or mebbe it’s just that I’m gettin’ older. Cal’s plowin’. He knowed you’d be here some time today and he told me to ring the bell when you come.” She started toward a large dinner bell that hung from a wooden frame at the corner of the house. “No, wait, Mrs. Geis,” said Mr. Ainsworth. “No need to call him up. We’ll find him. You won’t mind, will you, Miss Morris?” I assured him that I would not, bur Mrs. Geis’s glance traveled quickly over me and she said firmly, “She don’t want to walk out to the field in them pretty shoes.” As she started toward the bell again I looked at my feet and then at hers which looked surprisingly small in a pair of little boys’ brown oxfords. “No, please. We insist,” said Mr. Ainsworth and he grasped my elbow and steered me back toward the car. “We can drive part way, and we won’t have to interrupt Cal’s plowing very long.” And to me he whispered, “You always want to do whatever you can to make a good impression, you know.” For the first time since I decided to interrupt my college work to find a job, it occurred to me that I was to undergo scrutiny in this interview. I was full of confidence that with my two years’ and three summers’ work at the state college I was well qualified to teach anything that might be required of me. By today’s standards I was ill prepared for that or any job, but assurance and enthusiasm I had in quantity, and I didn’t think that the community could reap anything but benefit from my arrival. But now this remark of the superintendent’s—was there some possibility that my services might be unwanted? This nagged at me as we drove along a meadow lane and started on foot along the edge of the field where we could see a man plowing. Greeting us with a wave of his large straw hat, he tied the horses to a fence and came toward us, wiping his hands and face with a red bandanna as he walked. I felt that my own appearance left something to be desired, for dust was swirling around us and the wind was whipping and tangling my hair and skirt. As he neared us, I could see that his striped bib overalls bowed out over a paunchy frame and his blue work shirt was darkened with sweat stains though the day was not warm. “Why, Prof,” he said, as he reached us, “you shoulda rang the bell and I’d’a come up to the house. Too bad for yous to have to traipse clear out here.” He shook hands with me and I felt his hard, calloused palm. “No, no. Didn’t want to bother you that much,” said L.P. “Just wanted you to meet this young lady. “She’s applying for the junior high and home ec vacancy. She can get a special…” “Well, let her apply then.” Cal Geis interrupted with a guffaw. “Yer doin’ all the talkin’, yerself. Let her get a word in so’s I can see if she can talk. How about it, young lady? Have you got your certificate and do you think you can handle the work?” Grinning at me, he moved closer, his lips pulling back to show his uneven, tobacco-stained teeth. I edged away and began, “I am already qualified to teach junior high subjects and next month I will take an examination for a special certificate that will permit me to teach home economics in high school.” “She knows how to type, too,” added Mr. Ainsworth. “If you fellows will let us get another typewriter, we’ll have two, and we can offer typing next year. Be a fine addition to our curriculum.” “L.P’s really pulling for me,” I thought gratefully as Mr. Geis continued a little less warmly. “Well, now, are you pretty sure you can pass that examination? We can’t run without our state aid, and we gotta have certified teachers to get it.” “You don’t need to worry about her scholasticism,” said L.P. I’ve seen her grade average and I think she’ll pass her test all right.” “O,K. I’ll take yer word for it, Prof.—But how do you think you’ll handle the boys around here, Miss Morris? You look kinda young to be teachin’ school.” He leered at me and nudged Mr. Ainsworth. I drew myself up and spoke with great dignity. ‘’I assure you, Mr. Geis, that will be no problem.” “Well, Cal,” said Mr. Ainsworth. “We’ll be moving on. It’s getting close to noon. Maybe we can catch Nels Jensen at his house if we get there right away. So long, Cal. See you at the meeting Thursday night.” We did find Nels in for lunch, and he and his wife, Gerda, urged us to join them at the large, round kitchen table. “Ve like to haf you. Iss lonesome here ven the kids iss in school all day,” said Gerda. But L. P. declined, saying that the missus was expecting us soon and we must be on our way. As we drove on, again heading north through greening fields, the road began a gradual rise. “Keep looking,” said Mr. Ainsworth, “and you’ll see ‘er.” And finally, “There’s Greeneville Township Consolidated in the flesh—right before your eyes.” I looked ahead and saw against the sky at the top of a hill the brick school building and the white teacherage which were to become so familiar to me. They sat at right angles to each other with the school facing east and the teacherage facing south. They appeared to be huddling together against the wind and there was not a tree nor a shrub nor a person in sight. The word that came to my mind at those moments was “godforsaken,” and during the next three years there were times when I thought God had, indeed, abandoned Windy Hill and all who dwelt thereon. |
