My Teachers Understood Little Girls

The chair clattered across the floor at the force of my brogan-shod foot as I marched, stiff-backed with unhappiness, to the back of the schoolroom. Alphabetically, my desk was the last one far from the pot-bellied stove where we students huddled for warmth when we came in from out-of-doors. The teacher allowed us to stay there for a specified time, which, in our opinions, was never long enough.

It was the winter of 1944. Many of us still remember those war years as constant anxiety while people waited for word from husbands, sons, or daughters who were in a distant lands fighting battles. At our house, the worry was for my oldest brother, who was on board a ship somewhere in the Pacific Ocean. We learned early to find the ocean on the world globe and, in comparison to adjoining land, it was massive. How could another ship, or even an airplane, find a ship if it needed help? Never underestimate how war affects small children.

On this particular morning, word had spread that the dreaded yellow envelope from the war department had arrived at a neighbor’s house the evening before. Tension enveloped the whole community. Who would be next to receive the news of a loved one missing in action, presumed dead?

Being a little girl is never easy, but particularly not when there is anxiety at home, anxiety we couldn’t understand. I left home unhappy that morning, and things regressed from there. Gasoline and tires were scarce and car use was for emergencies only, so, along with other somber children, I walked a mile to the small school in the Beech community near Weaverville, North Carolina. The building had an auditorium, two cloakrooms, and four rooms that had at one time been classrooms. By the time I reached school age, one room had become a playroom for bad weather days and another was a storage room. One of the remaining rooms housed first, second, and third grades and the other housed fourth, fifth, and sixth grades.

Miss Brittain was the benevolent disciplinarian who presided over the lower grades.

By the time I reached third grade, Miss Brittain could read me like a book. I was not a temperamental child; however, I was quite cold natured. The pre-dawn cold penetrated my outerwear, my corduroy overalls, and long-sleeved blouses with Peter Pan collars, which my mother sewed.

On this particularly cold morning, Miss Brittain directed us to find our desks. I protested, but she insisted, so I left the warm stove and proceeded to the back of the room, kicking a chair out of my way. She ignored my action, and I thought I had gotten away with it. I took out my arithmetic book, always our first class. I disliked arithmetic and was always happy to get it over with first thing. This is ironic because in later years, I became an accountant. A standing joke about me is that I believe there is nothing more appealing than a page of properly executed double entry bookkeeping. Go figure!

Miss Brittain assigned work to the two lower grades, and then turned to us. “Third graders, take out your language workbooks.” She paused. “All except Peggy. She can take hers out after she apologizes for kicking the chair.”

I enjoyed language as much as I disliked arithmetic. I am one of those weird people who find pleasure in diagramming sentences. I returned the arithmetic book to my desk cubbyhole and pouted while the teacher strolled around the room answering questions and monitoring behavior. When she reached my desk, she leaned over and whispered, “Are you ready to apologize?” I nodded. She didn’t require me to say the words before she told me to take out my workbook.

Need I say I never again required discipline in Miss Minerva Brittain’s classroom? I remember her with a great deal of respect for knowing exactly what correction to deliver, even though I didn’t appreciate it at the time.

My teacher in the upper grades was a man whom I neither liked nor disliked. He was a dedicated teacher and taught us well, but I never felt affinity for him. Perhaps the boys did. However, our substitute teacher, his wife, was another matter. I adored her.

Mrs. Beulah Sawyer was in our classroom fairly often. She remembered what it meant to be a little girl. She was quick with a kind word when our lips trembled with embarrassment, and equally quick with a hug when our giggles turned into hysterical tears.

Children being the way they are, however, my fondness for her did not stop me from joining my classmates in doing everything we could to annoy her. That often included eating wild onions at recess. Can you imagine how much onion odor 30 of Heaven’s little angels can breathe into the closed atmosphere of a classroom? After asking us to refrain, which plea we ignored, she found a solution that we thought was hilarious. At recess, she gathered us into a group, escorted us to the back of the baseball field, and made sure each of us consumed at least one of the plentiful onions whether we wanted it or not.

When I first learned that my name, Peggy, is a nickname for Margaret, I decided that, henceforth, I would answer only to Margaret. Friday afternoons were special because in the last hour of class, Mrs. Sawyer gave us the privilege of choosing our occupation as long as we didn’t disturb others, and we remained in the room. I was, and am, a dedicated bookworm. When I have a book in my hands, nothing else exists, so I chose to read. On one cloudy day, I stood at the window where the light was better and ignored everything around me, including Mrs. Sawyer when she repeatedly called, “Peggy, go to your desk, please.” I raised my gaze from the book only when she said, “Margaret, go to your desk, please.” She returned my smile when I said “Yes, Ma’am” and did as she said.

The wisdom both Miss Brittain and Mrs. Sawyer demonstrated in choosing their battles instead of automatically meting out discipline gained them loving classrooms of students year after year. Our affection for them lasted on into adulthood and, whenever we returned to our home area, many of us visited their classrooms.

Their examples have been my guide in dealing with girls through the years. I hope there is at least one little girl who remembers me with as much affection as I remember these two extraordinary teachers. Aside from my parents, they were the most significant people in my life.

I don’t recall that I ever said ‘thank you’ to either of them. I probably didn’t, and I regret that failure.

I have several friends who in recent years have left the teaching profession because of lack of authorized discipline in the classroom. I am truly thankful that, in my childhood, teachers had authority over discipline measures, and that I had teachers who understood when and how to chastise wayward little girls.