Chapter 22 Rural Education

                                                          

                                                          Chapter 22 Rural Education

    To Dad’s credit he was always involved in the school, and was president of the school committee for some years.

    A one room/one teacher school didn't run to a library, and raising enough money to build such a  things for a school in a small farming community was difficult. Dad  persuaded Mr Abbott, our teacher, to embrace an idea he had to get more books for the children. At end of year at our breaking-up picnic, each child was presented with a book, selected from an education catalogue. 

    I adored my books, and eventually Dad successfully lobbied the education department to build us a library and stock it with new books. At the end of the year we used the library to set up the printing of our first school magazine. 

     We had a manual duplicator, a wooden block with a handle. The curved surface was covered with thick felt saturated with printing ink and over this was placed the duplicating paper on which the story had been printed. Much of the work was done by the teacher behind the scenes, but each page was printed individually in the library. Class writing competitions for essays and poetry were held, and these were incorporated, giving the pupils a great feeling of pride and involvement. Finally the magazine was complete. I kept a copy all these years because the teacher chose my design for the cover. Whoo-hoo! (see above.)

     When I got to grade 5, I experienced an important lesson in self-esteem, or rather, how easy it is to destroy a child's self-esteem, although it was not until I was an adult that I recognised the lesson. There was a new girl expected to arrive at the school because of a new family being transferred to the railway station house.

    For some weeks beforehand the teacher had been warning our class that we would soon have a newcomer to contend with who was much smarter than us. He constantly threatened that we were going to be made to look quite stupid in front of this new girl. She was going to show us all up; she was going to run rings around us; she was going to make us all look silly; on and on he went about how clever she was. Not only that, but this girl could also run fast, so even on sports days we were going to be outshone! And I fell straight into the trap.

     Being top of the class I had a long way to fall, and fall I did. The first exam we had after Judith arrived, I dropped to fifth place, and never really recovered. Looking back, the whole incident was very unfortunate, even for Judith, whose only sin was to be quite smart.  Even after Judith and her family transferred on, I only ever made it to third, although I topped the class in maths. Mind you, the most we ever had in our class was eight or ten pupils, and most of us were girls. Actually, while Judith lived in Green Springs I became good friends with her and often went to her house to play.

    When they were transferred, she promised us kids that she would send back a case of cherries from Stanthorpe, where they had lived before they came to Green Springs. And she did. They were a real luxury.

    I generally got on well at school, and being one of the older pupils in class probably helped. The girls were hardly ever caned, although I got it round the legs for talking in class.
   
    Two of us were called out the front and we knew we were in strife when the teacher asked angrily, "What were you two talking about?" 

    Dobbing in the other girl I replied, "Please sir, she asked me a question."

    "And what did you say?"

    "I said...I said..." Whack! 

    The cane came down on our legs and we were told to hurry up and get back to our places. We both cried for a few minutes until the stinging stopped.

    Boys though, were treated much more harshly. I remember David, a big lad with pale skin and freckles, who definitely had some intellectual problems. He rarely wore shoes and socks. I saw him sitting in class at a single desk, his bare legs exposed at the front. He had a pencil in his hand and a notepad in front of him, but he sat rigid, staring blankly at the board where the teacher was writing and trying to explain maths to him. The teacher was frustrated and angry and was yelling in a loud voice and every time he yelled he smacked David across the legs with the cane. Tears were rolling down the boy’s pale face and although I accepted this punishment as normal behavior, my heart went out to poor David.

    The boys were generally quiet and well-behaved in school, but tragically, they were caned for not being able to manage the work. This probably relieved the teacher's frustration, but did nothing to improve a student's marks. I remember another young lad, tall and gangly, with smooth olive skin. ‘Cecil’ often wore khaki shorts with bib and braces and was usually bare footed. He often felt the cane across his bare legs for not being smart, and I remember him crying uncontrollably under the onslaught of that punishment. Years later at a school reunion I asked after the teacher.

    "He wouldn't be game to come. Cecil would kill him!" Today, Cecil the boy, grown into man, owns a cattle station.
   
    Assville, and Eadervale schools both held annual sports days attended by all the surrounding small schools. Everyone wore white uniforms with some sort of identifying contrast colour. Our colours were white with royal blue ribbon; we had to have a strip down the sides of the boys’ shorts and a strip across the shoulders of the girls’ short sports dresses, and on our backs were the blue letters G. S.

    Teams played tunnel ball and leader ball; we ran flat races, skipping races, and relays, and at the end of the day all the schools marched around the oval to the Radetsky march, with the tallest student carrying the flag. When I got up to grade seven, I was also tallest in the school so I carried the flag. Woohoo!
   
    At our sports day in 1953, to celebrate the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II, the officials gave out beautiful bronze medallions to all the children who won a race, even if it was just one of the heats. Unusually, I won my first race, and still have my medallion. There was a long legged girl from Eadervale called Gabrielle, who was fleet of foot and always beat me in a race. I only won my race because she got a false start!

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    As well as getting the library for the school, Dad helped the teacher establish a bee club by loaning him books on managing an apiary, and he donated the first beehive to the school.

    I don't think Dad was ever without a hive of bees on the farm. Mum had to get used to helping him with bees from when she was first married, and she told me when Larry was just a little toddler she found him out in the back yard one day, sitting on the ground, poking a stick into the front of the beehive. Bees were buzzing all around him, but he never got one sting, nor did she. By sensing the pheromones, bees usually know if you're a friend or a foe.

    About 200 yds in front of our farm house just up from the gate, there was a beehive under a kurrajong tree, and the road to the house passed within fifty yards of it. On hot, humid summer days bees get quite angry, and one summer afternoon as I trudged up the hill tired and hungry after getting off the school bus, passing the beehive I was suddenly stung on the bridge of my nose. (No, I was not thinking bad thoughts about the bees; one guard bee just got it wrong!) I fled to the house crying and holding my face, where I was rescued by my mother. I called that bee for everything, and celebrated the act of nature that ensured that poor hard worker would die after stinging me. The fact that the bee had sacrificed its life in defence of its hive was not important to me that day. And so much for pheromones!

     When the apiary was established at the school, Mr Abbott helped us to elect a bee club committee and I became part of it. Once a week the administration of the bee club was one of our lessons. We all had project books where we drew bees, parts of bees and bee hives. We sketched bees’ legs with pollen baskets attached, flowers, and heads of sorghum which were frequented by the bees. The time we liked best though was extracting the honey, and Dad lent the equipment and demonstrated to the upper classes and the teacher, how to use the extractor. It was always the teacher and the boys though who did the work around the hive, girls being considered too delicate for such a task.

      Among Mum’s first experiences in the early years of her marriage with Dad and his bees, were crises in dry weather. The bees couldn't find enough blossoms to supply nectar to the hive sometimes in times of drought, and Dad was forced to buy large packets of broken boiled lollies to feed them.  During a food shortage the bees will often swarm, the Queen taking enough bees with her to start a new colony somewhere else, often in a tree or in somebody's house. 

    Bees are attracted to loud noise, and if Mum was alone and noticed the bees swarming, it was her job to create a racket near the hive to bring them back. 

She clattered on a four-gallon tin with a stick one day to attract a swarm. Then, as she had been taught by my father, she calmly caught the Queen and imprisoned her in a little cage especially made for the purpose, and kept her near the hive until Dad returned from work. Queen bees do not have a sting, and the bees will not leave the hive while the Queen is still there.

      It's worthy to note here that bees are averse to strong smells, especially perfume, car exhausts, and body odour. One extremely hot summer day on the farm, Dad was in a temper because the car wouldn’t start, and we were all dressed ready to go to town. He ordered Mum to start pushing at the back, while he managed the steering wheel and pushed from the open driver's door. As they drew level with the beehive under the kurrajong tree, the bees swarmed around poor Mum.

    “Alec! The bees are attacking me!”

     "Don't worry about the bloody bees, Peg! Just push the damn car!" 

    Mum went back to pushing, but the bees were still buzzing around her when they made it down to the gate, where the car coughed itself to a begrudging rumble. She had one sting on the back of the neck, so under the circumstances she probably got off quite lightly. and Dad got the car started!

    After a couple of years of running the bee club at the school, Mr Abbott must have got a bit tired of the stings himself, for he decided that we would have a poultry club instead.    
 
    Again Dad gave guidance, and the hapless teacher benefited more than he’d bargained on in ways of raising poultry. Pens were built, fowls were bought, books were studied, and a poultry club was formed. This time I was elected president, as willing candidates for official positions amongst the pupils were hard to find. We sold eggs and kept accounts. This time, about three of the students had home projects. Of course, Dad made sure I was one of them. Always eager to extract the best possible outcome in any situation, he ordered two black Australorp hens and a rooster from Gatton Agricultural College, and converted an old bird aviary into a pen for the special new poultry. 

    I immediately named them all, but being a naive 13 year-old, I didn't realize the irony of the choice. There was a song on the radio called Padre, and I loved that song; but I didn't understand that the word Padre referred to a chaplain. I called my hens Polly and Pixie, and the majestic rooster, Padre.

    When the school inspector came to the school he inspected all our project books for the poultry club, and had Mr Abbott drive him out to the farms to see the home projects. In front of the Inspector, Mr Abbott slyly asked me the names I'd given to my fowls.  I always wondered why he had an odd grin on his face at the time.