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A little schoolhouse on the prairie

History and Commentary From a Prairie Perspective
rural scene pic

On May 20, Minister of Education Don Morgan stated there could be further amalgamations of school divisions and wondered out loud what the optimum number of school divisions should be. In the ivory towers of the University of Saskatchewan the Standard-bearers of Bigness rejoiced to hear their opinions were still in favour. I believe they have a made a mantra of claiming that everywhere, all the time and in every situation bigger is better for everybody. Being a well-seasoned Disciple of Smallness, I beg to differ.

Logic, which I began to learn in a small school in a small village, tells me that messing around with administrative units is no guarantee of improvements in anything. In the far away days of my early learning, the Saskatchewan Education Act provided that the adult inhabitants of any prescribed geographic area who had a minimum of 10 children to be educated could apply to Regina to be designated a school district and receive construction and operating grants.

When I first trudged off to the village school, the country schools were disappearing because the immediate populations that had sustained them were escaping from drought in the short-grass prairie to seek better fortunes by going “up north” or to British Columbia or the irrigation districts of Alberta.

There were still pupils enough in my village for three classrooms occupied by 12 grades. By present day standards the classrooms were primitive. There were no electric lights and no running water, although two of the classrooms were provided with bathrooms that were connected to a cesspool. In a village that lacked a sewer and water system, the cesspools at the school and the hospital were thought of as the first step toward civilized living. The lack of amenities didn’t affect the quality of the teaching.

On my first day in school I met the primary room teacher who ignited my passion for constant learning. Her ghost still haunts my mind. I can hear her speaking and laughing. She was not just my teacher, she was my friend until death claimed her in a distant place almost 60 years later. Another pupil who was her friend until death was Elvie Smith, who became a leading figure in Canadian aeronautics and the CEO of Pratt and Whitney Canada. I like to think she lit the spark that led to his appointment to the Order of Canada in 1992.

 I am grateful to other teachers at the little school in the village. One produced Pinocchio as a puppet show. I was not permitted to handle the puppets, but I painted their faces and the backdrops and provided the voices. I can still sing the songs. She went on to greater triumphs in other years, conscripting the entire student body to appear in public performances of The Chimes of Normandy and The Pirates of Penzance. One of the favourite characters I hold in memory is the Little Tom-tit who sang In the Tree by the River.

When I reached high school, I had the options of studying French, Latin, German and Ukrainian, all taught by valiant teachers who stayed one assignment ahead of me. The only learning experiences not offered in the village school were stilted bureaucratese and inter-mural sports. I don’t regret the loss.

I am not writing about pupil-teacher ratios. I am writing about pupil-teacher relationships. I cherish most of mine. I was in a little school in a little village where a little school board cared deeply about their school, their community and their children. That jealous sense of ownership engendered the caring and creativity that decorates my memories.

When, in pursuit of bigness, control moves to faceless bureaucrats further and further away, the precious experience which I remember can never be resurrected. I rest my case.