A Day In The Life of a One-Room School Teacher (circa 1924) Dear Mother and Father, Hope all is well at home. I thought you might appreciate an account of a typical day here in my one-room schoolhouse. Awoke before sunrise. Took some time starting a fire in the small wood-stove to warm the cabin provided for me by the school district. This helped warm the water for washing. Braced myself to face the cold winds hinted at by the draft around the cabin door and windows. Dressed just in time to catch a ride past the schoolhouse with Mr. Richardson and his team of horses. Arrived at the new schoolhouse, which replaced the temporary schoolroom at the pool hall in town in September. It was a pleasant change from walking the frozen two miles from town. Mr. Short had already dropped off the morning supply of freshwater for drinking purposes but it had already partially frozen. Mr. Richardson graciously assisted me in carrying the ice-water indoors and loading timbers into the wood-stove before heading out. Discovered evidence of mice when I went to the wood-box for kindling I had cut the previous afternoon. It would appear they have already made a home for themselves in the wood-box utilizing chewed bits of our only dictionary. Started a fire in the school wood-stove to take the edge off the cold. Lit the coal-oil lamps so as to see until full light. Electricity has not yet reached the schoolhouse. Inspected the outhouse to discover a porcupine chewing the seat. Much screaming ensued as I raced back into the shelter of the schoolhouse to watch the little pin-cushion slink away. Re-started the fire as it had gone out while I dealt with said porcupine. The first of my nine pupils arrived. The two Cunningham children, Wesley and Irene would be a while at the stove, warming their hands from the cold walk to school. Wesley and Irene helped me unpack a box of school supplies from the government. One of the items, a glass bottle of liquid ink, had frozen and burst overnight. We carefully removed it to a metal container before it recovered from its solid state. The four Barlow children, aged six to fourteen, arrived by wagon. They joined the Cunningham children in huddling around the stove until the temperature rose to a manageable level in the far reaches of the room. The room seldom warms up until late in the school day when close proximity to the stove is searingly uncomfortable. In the meantime, the children amused themselves by watching the mice from the bookcase scurry back and forth across the log rafters. The children and I have developed a system whereby we know that when the ice in the inkwell on the front desk near the window bobs freely up and down when tapped, it is time to be seated and begin our lessons. Today we were further delayed by the tardy arrival of the three Roberts children. They explained they were up most of the night keeping a heater burning in their hen house so as not to lose any chicks to the cold. We started with recitations from the reader so the children's fingers had time to limber up from the cold. The rest of the day was filled with arithmetic drills, writing and penmanship exercises, and phonics. Days are usually relatively uneventful, but today Richard Barlow pushed me to the edge of sanity. I had to point to the strap hanging on the wall to remind him of the cost of acting up in class. Mr. Short returned in the afternoon to bring another bucket of drinking water. The last children helped me sweep and clean the school before their parents' wagon arrived at dusk. Unfortunately, they were heading away from town so I made my way home, on foot, in the dark. The first snowfall of the season began to settle on the land as I turned over in my mind a way in which young Wesley might overcome his difficulties with long division. Well, the lantern is fading and I am hesitant to overuse my meagre supply of coal oil so I'd best run. I think of you often. Your loving daughter, Alice