The Teacher

She was a farmer’s daughter who earned her grade eleven diploma in one-room country schoolhouse just up the road from the farm. So, she was not prepared for the call that came that morning.

After her husband had left for work at the factory and both her young sons were out the door, the phone rang. It was the school. This could not be good news.

“Mrs. M., we’re calling to ask for your help. Our First Grade teacher, Mrs. Lamarche, is sick today and we’d like you to come and watch her class.”

Relief gave way to shock. Her boys were not in trouble, but... Dumbfounded, she managed to stammer, “I’m sorry, you want me to what?”

“We’d like you to come in and watch over Mrs. Lamarche’s Grade One class for the day. We’ll give them activities. You won’t have to do any teaching and it would be for just one day,” they explained. “We need someone to mind the children. They’re all very sweet.”

A stay-at-home mom raising two boys of her own, she knew better than to take that last part at face value. But this was the early 1950s: baby-boom kids were stuffing the schools to the rafters and teachers were in short supply.

She blinked in surprise once or twice after hanging up, then gathered her things and raced over to the school. Duty was a powerful motivator for her generation.

Somehow, she made it through the day ‘watching the kids’. When the last bell rang and the children were gone, she dropped by the office to say goodbye and tell them she was leaving. The school’s Principal was waiting.

“Oh, but Mrs. M, that went so well, we’d like you to come in for the rest of the week, please. It seems that Mrs. Lamarche needs a few days to recover.”

“But…” she stammered again, “I’m not a teacher!” Somehow, that one-room schoolhouse seemed like thin qualification for the job.

“Oh, seeing the way you handled them today, you’re a natural with children,” the Principal assured her. “We’ll give you some simple lessons to keep them busy. You’ll see. We’ll pay you, of course.”

Pay her? She hadn’t even thought of that. Well, one week. How hard could it be?

She was surprised at how that week flew by, but still, it was a relief when Friday afternoon rolled around and she once again stopped by the office to say goodbye. And once again, the school Principal was waiting.

“Oh, Mrs. M! It seems that Mrs. Lamarche won’t be coming back, maybe not until Hallowe’en or maybe even after Christmas!” The man looked aggrieved. “Her condition is worse than we thought,” the Principal apologized.

“Well, surely, there must be someone at another school?” she protested. “A substitute?”

“No, there’s no one! There’s a terrible shortage of teachers this year. I’ve had to take over the Grade Six class, myself,” he told her, looking even more unhappy. “We’re understaffed as it is.”

Taking a good look at his neatly pressed suit and fancy tie, she suspected that perhaps he was not the sort to be at quite home at the head of a classroom of rambunctious six-graders.

He held out a folder to her.

“Here’s a Grade One lesson plan. We can go over it now if you like.”

She did not ‘like’, exactly, but growing up on the farm, she’d been raised not to back away from a difficult situation, so she sat down and got a crash-course in how youngsters were expected to learn, week by wee: important things like their letters, their numbers and how to line up when the bell rang. It was just the first grade, after all. And to tell the truth, the children were rather sweet – when guided with a firm hand.

And so, Mrs. M., the farmer’s daughter with a grade 11 education, took over Mrs. Lamarche’s Grade One class. That year, as she taught her class their letters and how to count to one hundred, she discovered that she was enjoying herself. She taught them how to make Hallowe’en masks and practice their song for the Christmas play.

Oh, and there was more: how to go to ask politely to go to the bathroom, how to settle down after recess – that was quite a challenge – and how to cover their mouths when they sneezed. Share their coloured pencils. Don’t push. And no biting. Absolutely no biting!

Important things. The kinds of things they could carry forward all their lives.

She may not have had a teaching degree, but she had a knack for the job. In those years, that was enough, and, looking around at some of the other teachers, she realised that a college degree did not guarantee one became a successful teacher. Privately, she felt that the Principal was a case in point. He lacked a firm hand.

That was 1952. She retired in 1973. She said they were the best years of her life.

Late in those years, after my brothers had grown into ‘fine young men’ (!), it was she who taught me to read and write. She was my mother, you see.

No honours were heaped on her, no one ever gave her a prize, her name was never blared from loudspeakers at a parade. She just quietly settled down and got the job done. And she never asked for more.

Except… once in a while when I was a child, I’d be out with her when she ran into one of her former students. They’d smile shyly and ask how ‘Mrs. M.’ was doing, and who was this young fellow trying to hide behind her leg? I’d squirm, but I could see how proud she looked when they greeted her.

Twenty-two years’ worth of kids learned their ABCs and 1-2-3s from my unsung mother.

Did I say unsung?

Well, nothing ostentatious – she’d never approve – but, every once in a while a quiet note of gratitude would make its way back to her. It would come as a smile and a happy wave from a young adult who’d found their way in the world in part because a country girl with a Grade 11 diploma from a one-room schoolhouse didn’t walk away when she was asked to step in.