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bjarvisRural community life is sometimes every bit as dark as one suspects. Not The Lottery dark, but close.
The elementary school in Charlton which nearly all of my siblings and I would attend was formally named "Charlton Consolidated School." While I wasan inmate a student there, I didn't fully understand what the name meant. During my teens when I worked two summers at the local history museum in Englehart, I learned that it was built in 1924 after the Great Fire to become a single centralized public school, gradually absorbing the many one-room schoolhouses which were scattered across multiple townships and Charlton itself.
Further, I learned that nearly all of the teachers I had in that school during the 1970s were themselves teachers in those one-room schoolhouses.
In 1970 or so, I knew of at least two of the original schoolhouses which escaped both the Great Fire and being torn down. One was on the home plot of friends of ours in Hilliard township and long-since converted into a garage and storage barn. The other was the Brentha School on Brentha Road, a one acre lot about 2.5 miles from our farm. The building was essentially intact although heavily weathered; the former playground itself had been left to grow wild.
I now change the names to protect the innocent, guilty and unindicted...
The acre lot and building were carved out of a large field owned by one Mr Frederick, a cranky old man who lived a half-mile further down Brentha Road. Among antisocial loners in rural backwoods nowhere, he was exceptional. Disputes with neighbours were many and legendary: any livestock which might happen to wander onto his property were claimed as his own and Frederick wasn't shy about using a gun to demonstrate how seriously he was willing to protect his peculiar interpretation of property rights. In the summer of 1971, the Marten family's dog was shot & killed for having wandered onto the wrong side of the property line chasing a groundhog.
Mr Frederick was not well liked.
He also had his eye on that schoolhouse. After all, from his point of view, that acre on which it was located was intrinsically part of his land and its continued severance was an affront to his lawful rights.
The school board, however, owned the title to that acre. If the board wished to dispose of property, provincial law required the board first to make it available to community not-for-profit groups; if there were no takers, it could be offered for private sale via public auction. In late 1971, the school board asked for expressions of interest from the public on the disposal of the Brentha School property.
By early spring, there were two finalists: Mr Frederick, claiming the land was always truly his and demanding the board return it to him, and the Sunday Creek Women's Institute, a group of 25-30 local farm women who sought to preserve the building as local history and make it available as a community hall. Being a not-for-profit, the Women's Institute was awarded the property for $1.
I was too young still for kindergarten in 1972 so I accompanied Mom to the schoolhouse lot that spring. She and a dozen other women returned day after day, clearing away the dust and litter inside the building, cleaning the windows, washing the walls, mowing the grass, changing the locks and performing other maintenance. The building didn't have electricity yet --the lines and internal wiring would have to be repaired and upgraded before it could be restored-- so all work was done as long as there was daylight. After 2-3 weeks of work, an abandoned building and overgrown lot began to look like a usable public building. Mom and the other ladies were aglow with what they accomplished: it was entirely their work, not a single husband was involved in their project.
Mr Frederick continued to express his displeasure at what he considered the illegal misappropriation of his personal property. Nearly every day, he drove his tractor and manure spreader the half-mile from his barn to the edge of the fence to distribute a fresh layer, double on the upwind side. Of course, if any manure should accidentally spray across the fence --perhaps onto parked cars-- well, too bad. In his own peculiar sense of honour, he couldn't directly confront the ladies but he was happy to make life as difficult as possible for them.
His protest was utterly ineffective. These were farm women: the smell of manure wasn't especially unusual in their lives.
A few times we returned to the schoolhouse to find windows shattered and bullet holes in the walls. Only the eastern windows, the ones with a view to Frederick's farm, were broken.
Late one afternoon, Mom, the ladies and I closed up the building, packed the tools and equipment into the cars and headed for home. We had dinner per usual, watched some television and went to bed.
The following morning, Mom loaded boxes of tools and cleaning materials into the car, strapped me into the passenger seat with a box on my lap and we headed to the school.
But it wasn't there anymore.
A half-dozen other the women arrived before us. Most were just staring bewildered at the black rubble where the building had burned overnight. The grass over half the lot was blacked. Wisps of smoke rose slowly from a few larger pieces of charred wood.
Mom made me stay in the car while she talked to her friends. A couple covered their mouths with their hands as they cried. Mrs Wilson had a look of pure fury. Mrs. Madsen walked around the building foundation, looking for anything that might be left in the ruins. Mom returned and leaned against the car, her head lowered. She was crying. After a full minute, she took a deep breath, stood fully erect and pounded the roof the car with both fists, staring tight-lipped at the house of Mr Frederick a half-mile down the road. The other women turned around sharply at Mom's sudden outburst and all followed her stare to the Frederick house.
For the first time in my life, my mother scared me. And I could see they were all of the same mind: something must be done.
In the following months, the situation changed slowly. The fire marshall declared it was an electrical fire from poor maintenance. The fire marshall apparently didn't think it suspicious that the building had no electricity, but then again, the fire marshall was Frederick's brother.
The building itself wasn't yet insured. They couldn't get a policy until it had electricity and a functioning water system so there were no proceeds from the fire.
By the end of the summer, the women opted to return the title to the school board who then awarded it for some amount of money to the only other participant in the original call for participation: Mr. Frederick.
Within a week, the remains of the fence was torn down, the playground was plowed under and the remaining rubble was cleared away. Only a sharply leaning ancient telephone pole remained on the acre to show it was once separate from the rest of the field.
In the late fall, after I had started kindergarten, I remember the telephone ringing late one night. Having a party line, all our friends & family knew never to call after 10pm unless it was an emergency. To receive a call at 2-3am meant it must have been dire.
I stumbled down the stairs. Mom and Dad were talking in the living room. Frederick's farm house was on fire. They both spoke about it calmly, as though they were describing a movie they saw last week or a newscast they heard that morning. Dad ushered my brother and I back to bed while Mom got dressed. Dad sat with us quietly as I heard the car engine start and the sound fade as it rolled down the driveway to the road.
Mom was sitting in the kitchen still fully dressed when we came downstairs to prepare for school. I asked where she had gone last night. She said that Mr Frederick's house burned down last night.
"Did you go to help?" I asked.
"No," she said. "Just to watch."
I think she smiled slightly.
The elementary school in Charlton which nearly all of my siblings and I would attend was formally named "Charlton Consolidated School." While I was
Further, I learned that nearly all of the teachers I had in that school during the 1970s were themselves teachers in those one-room schoolhouses.
In 1970 or so, I knew of at least two of the original schoolhouses which escaped both the Great Fire and being torn down. One was on the home plot of friends of ours in Hilliard township and long-since converted into a garage and storage barn. The other was the Brentha School on Brentha Road, a one acre lot about 2.5 miles from our farm. The building was essentially intact although heavily weathered; the former playground itself had been left to grow wild.
I now change the names to protect the innocent, guilty and unindicted...
The acre lot and building were carved out of a large field owned by one Mr Frederick, a cranky old man who lived a half-mile further down Brentha Road. Among antisocial loners in rural backwoods nowhere, he was exceptional. Disputes with neighbours were many and legendary: any livestock which might happen to wander onto his property were claimed as his own and Frederick wasn't shy about using a gun to demonstrate how seriously he was willing to protect his peculiar interpretation of property rights. In the summer of 1971, the Marten family's dog was shot & killed for having wandered onto the wrong side of the property line chasing a groundhog.
Mr Frederick was not well liked.
He also had his eye on that schoolhouse. After all, from his point of view, that acre on which it was located was intrinsically part of his land and its continued severance was an affront to his lawful rights.
The school board, however, owned the title to that acre. If the board wished to dispose of property, provincial law required the board first to make it available to community not-for-profit groups; if there were no takers, it could be offered for private sale via public auction. In late 1971, the school board asked for expressions of interest from the public on the disposal of the Brentha School property.
By early spring, there were two finalists: Mr Frederick, claiming the land was always truly his and demanding the board return it to him, and the Sunday Creek Women's Institute, a group of 25-30 local farm women who sought to preserve the building as local history and make it available as a community hall. Being a not-for-profit, the Women's Institute was awarded the property for $1.
I was too young still for kindergarten in 1972 so I accompanied Mom to the schoolhouse lot that spring. She and a dozen other women returned day after day, clearing away the dust and litter inside the building, cleaning the windows, washing the walls, mowing the grass, changing the locks and performing other maintenance. The building didn't have electricity yet --the lines and internal wiring would have to be repaired and upgraded before it could be restored-- so all work was done as long as there was daylight. After 2-3 weeks of work, an abandoned building and overgrown lot began to look like a usable public building. Mom and the other ladies were aglow with what they accomplished: it was entirely their work, not a single husband was involved in their project.
Mr Frederick continued to express his displeasure at what he considered the illegal misappropriation of his personal property. Nearly every day, he drove his tractor and manure spreader the half-mile from his barn to the edge of the fence to distribute a fresh layer, double on the upwind side. Of course, if any manure should accidentally spray across the fence --perhaps onto parked cars-- well, too bad. In his own peculiar sense of honour, he couldn't directly confront the ladies but he was happy to make life as difficult as possible for them.
His protest was utterly ineffective. These were farm women: the smell of manure wasn't especially unusual in their lives.
A few times we returned to the schoolhouse to find windows shattered and bullet holes in the walls. Only the eastern windows, the ones with a view to Frederick's farm, were broken.
Late one afternoon, Mom, the ladies and I closed up the building, packed the tools and equipment into the cars and headed for home. We had dinner per usual, watched some television and went to bed.
The following morning, Mom loaded boxes of tools and cleaning materials into the car, strapped me into the passenger seat with a box on my lap and we headed to the school.
But it wasn't there anymore.
A half-dozen other the women arrived before us. Most were just staring bewildered at the black rubble where the building had burned overnight. The grass over half the lot was blacked. Wisps of smoke rose slowly from a few larger pieces of charred wood.
Mom made me stay in the car while she talked to her friends. A couple covered their mouths with their hands as they cried. Mrs Wilson had a look of pure fury. Mrs. Madsen walked around the building foundation, looking for anything that might be left in the ruins. Mom returned and leaned against the car, her head lowered. She was crying. After a full minute, she took a deep breath, stood fully erect and pounded the roof the car with both fists, staring tight-lipped at the house of Mr Frederick a half-mile down the road. The other women turned around sharply at Mom's sudden outburst and all followed her stare to the Frederick house.
For the first time in my life, my mother scared me. And I could see they were all of the same mind: something must be done.
In the following months, the situation changed slowly. The fire marshall declared it was an electrical fire from poor maintenance. The fire marshall apparently didn't think it suspicious that the building had no electricity, but then again, the fire marshall was Frederick's brother.
The building itself wasn't yet insured. They couldn't get a policy until it had electricity and a functioning water system so there were no proceeds from the fire.
By the end of the summer, the women opted to return the title to the school board who then awarded it for some amount of money to the only other participant in the original call for participation: Mr. Frederick.
Within a week, the remains of the fence was torn down, the playground was plowed under and the remaining rubble was cleared away. Only a sharply leaning ancient telephone pole remained on the acre to show it was once separate from the rest of the field.
In the late fall, after I had started kindergarten, I remember the telephone ringing late one night. Having a party line, all our friends & family knew never to call after 10pm unless it was an emergency. To receive a call at 2-3am meant it must have been dire.
I stumbled down the stairs. Mom and Dad were talking in the living room. Frederick's farm house was on fire. They both spoke about it calmly, as though they were describing a movie they saw last week or a newscast they heard that morning. Dad ushered my brother and I back to bed while Mom got dressed. Dad sat with us quietly as I heard the car engine start and the sound fade as it rolled down the driveway to the road.
Mom was sitting in the kitchen still fully dressed when we came downstairs to prepare for school. I asked where she had gone last night. She said that Mr Frederick's house burned down last night.
"Did you go to help?" I asked.
"No," she said. "Just to watch."
I think she smiled slightly.
