Back when I was about age nine
Brushy Ridge School House(The building is no longer standing)
A Time to Remember
By Ronnie Powell
Prelude to Brushy Ridge School
In late autumn of 1944, my parents, twin brother Donnie and I and younger brother Richard accompanied by Grandmother Carrie Powell returned to the family farm located near Long Lane, Missouri. The old homestead house had stood vacant since the passing of Grandfather Charley Powell.
In 1938, hard times forced my parents to leave the country and to seek employment in Kansas City, Missouri. With only four dollars from the sale of a pregnant sow they traveled in a Model A. Ford sedan to the metropolis where Father quickly found a job, rented a house and the family settled into city life.
Donnie and I were three years of age linked to the old homestead only by birth. Richard had yet to be born. It was not a difficult transition for us, for there was little or no memory of the country.
At age six, Donnie and I attended school during or about the time World War Two began its assault on America. Father joined a volunteer auxiliary police group to help maintain complete blackout over the city. He often spent late hours walking a beat and recalled infractions of the law during blackout events. I distinctly remember two occasions when U.S. Bombers flew over the city at night. The rumble of their engines could be heard long before they were sighted, ghostly images of destruction intent on detecting pin points of light in the city below.
Word came to Grandmother Carrie who now resided in Kansas City that her oldest son Buell had been killed in the invasion of Tarawa. The war took on a dreadful reality for the family.
In 1944, Father began working in a defense plant with the draft looming closer. Grandmother Carrie sold the farm to Father and the family began preparing to move back to the country, for it appeared he would soon be called to military duty.
Early one grey November morning in 1944, Father, Donnie and I sat inside the cab of a stub nose Chevy moving truck loaded with all our possessions and began a two hundred mile journey to the farm. Behind us in the family’s 1937 Chevy sedan were Mother, Grandmother Carrie and young Richard. It would be an unforgettable journey through one of the most severe blizzards I have ever known.
Twelve hours later we arrived at the farm where the old house sat on the north face of Brushy Ridge, a desolate two story dwelling cloaked in snow. The front door stood open and snow covered most of the parlor floor. The house contained no heat, electric lights, (electricity had yet to be established in most rural areas) or running water. The bare windows were exposed to the driving wind and dust lay everywhere. A huge potbellied stove stood in the parlor and in the kitchen a cast iron cook stove occupied the room with a sagging chimney pipe riddled with rust holes.
Taking possession of the house was not an easy task and required all the family, including Richard. It wasn’t long and new pipes were attached to the stoves and loaded with wood found in a shed out back. Fires were lit and soon the cold although reluctantly began retreating from the house. It was as if the old structure awakened, creaking and groaning from the wonderful warmth that filled each room. Sheets and blankets were hung over the doors and windows to keep the biting cold outside.
When at last all of our possessions were inside the house, Father prepared to return to the city alone, to leave us to fend for ourselves. There was no choice in the matter, for he was required to report to work the next morning. The following weeks and months were difficult for all of us until the war ended and Father came home to stay.
A few days after our arrival at the farm, Mother informed Donnie and I that we would be going to the Brushy Ridge School located about a mile west of the house. She told us it was the same school Father had attended as a boy.
Brushy Ridge School
We left early for the short drive to the schoolhouse. I stared in speechless astonishment at the building, for it was nothing like I imagined it would be. The structure sat in the center of a clearing completely surrounded by forest. A small building in comparison to the one I had attended in Kansas City. The front end faced the road and revealed two doors and a small attached shed, housing a long handle water pump. Each side of the white clapboard structure contained four large windows. A belfry sat on the roof near the rear of the schoolhouse. Behind the building I could see two dilapidated privies setting near the edge of the woods and I knew the transition would not be easy for me, but I loved the beautiful country of my beginning.
The Chevy rolled to a stop near the front of the schoolhouse as I continued to stare in disbelief at what would be in the years to come a place of enduring memories. The teacher, Miss Ina stepped out one of the doors and greeted Mother, Donnie and I warmly and invited us in. I immediately took a liking to the young woman and at her beckoning strode inside the building. Once again I stared in disbelief at what I saw. A huge slate blackboard covered most of the back wall and directly in front of it sat the teacher’s desk. The students’ desks were assembled in four rows and faced the teacher’s desk. A huge wood burning stove occupied the center of the room and glowed red from the heat within. The north wall contained a library of assorted books. The first to catch my attention was the Call of the Wild and later I discovered Penrod and Sam, Robin Hood, Susannah the Pioneer Cow and many other favorites to be. A pantry was located near one of the front doors with a sink and cabinets for lunch pails or sacks. Between the two doors were wall mounted hooks for coats and caps and a poster of the Constitution.
After introductions Donnie and I were told to choose a desk from those that stood vacant. A desk of my choice stood near the north wall in front of a window and within arms length of the modest library. The window offered an exceptional view of the forest.
Completely fascinated by the surroundings, I sat at the desk unaware that other students had arrived. I looked up into nine curious faces, the entire student body, not including Donnie and me.
During the next five years three other teachers came and went. Miss Ruby followed Miss Ina and then Miss Little and finally Miss Mae who boarded with us during the week and helped make it possible for four eighth graders to graduate from the eighth grade.
Many of the rural one room schools were consolidating and a couple of years after I left, Brushy Ridge district closed its doors and the land and building were sold.
Annie Over was my favorite game, but there were others of which I have forgotten and of course there was soft ball. The forest around the building was also a play ground for hide and seek and Robin Hood and his merry men.
A Thanksgiving and Christmas play brought the parents in for a festive event with food laid out on a table. About three weeks before Christmas the teacher accompanied us into the woods to cut a cedar tree and nearly always it was too big and had to be trimmed back before setting it up, but still exceeded six feet. Most of the decoration was made by the students along with posters from crepe and construction paper.
An annual pie supper brought folks in from miles around and usually the building was packed. A local girl was selected as the prettiest from the most money donated in her name. The name Sally Ax Handle was nearly always placed on the board as a joke, but rarely won the title. All proceeds were used to purchase incidentals for the school.
Each autumn about a week before school commenced the parents of the students and neighbors gathered at the school building to clean the interior or make repairs. The privies were cleaned, but not before all wasps and spiders were evicted. The assaults on the building were met with stiff resistance by angry wasps. I delighted in the forays, showing off a bit swatting wasps inside the privies until they were driven away or perished on site. On occasion a Copperhead snake was found in a privy or on the play ground and if possible I would carry it into the woods and turn it loose.
I loved snowy days watching snow flakes gather on the window panes, enjoying the warmth of the room and dreaming, sometimes unintentionally ignoring a question from the teacher. I treasured the walk to and from school along a winding gravel road savoring the smells of the forest, unlike the city streets where noise was constant and the air stank of automobile exhausts.
In Memory of Brushy Ridge School
There stands among the briar bush and tall black oaks an old schoolhouse.
Its windows are dark and empty where within dwells the spider and mouse.
Time has rendered it irreparable since the children went away.
Its dress of white is now tattered and gray.
Inside its dreary realm are remnants of the past and they hold you there.
An old damp book once held by teacher with loving care.
On the slate cracked and stained are the words cat and four.
An empty ink bottle lies upon the floor.
There is melancholy about the place and it’s best to turn away.
I think it wise to remember Brushy Ridge from a childhood day. Adios
By Ronnie Powell
Prelude to Brushy Ridge School
In late autumn of 1944, my parents, twin brother Donnie and I and younger brother Richard accompanied by Grandmother Carrie Powell returned to the family farm located near Long Lane, Missouri. The old homestead house had stood vacant since the passing of Grandfather Charley Powell.
In 1938, hard times forced my parents to leave the country and to seek employment in Kansas City, Missouri. With only four dollars from the sale of a pregnant sow they traveled in a Model A. Ford sedan to the metropolis where Father quickly found a job, rented a house and the family settled into city life.
Donnie and I were three years of age linked to the old homestead only by birth. Richard had yet to be born. It was not a difficult transition for us, for there was little or no memory of the country.
At age six, Donnie and I attended school during or about the time World War Two began its assault on America. Father joined a volunteer auxiliary police group to help maintain complete blackout over the city. He often spent late hours walking a beat and recalled infractions of the law during blackout events. I distinctly remember two occasions when U.S. Bombers flew over the city at night. The rumble of their engines could be heard long before they were sighted, ghostly images of destruction intent on detecting pin points of light in the city below.
Word came to Grandmother Carrie who now resided in Kansas City that her oldest son Buell had been killed in the invasion of Tarawa. The war took on a dreadful reality for the family.
In 1944, Father began working in a defense plant with the draft looming closer. Grandmother Carrie sold the farm to Father and the family began preparing to move back to the country, for it appeared he would soon be called to military duty.
Early one grey November morning in 1944, Father, Donnie and I sat inside the cab of a stub nose Chevy moving truck loaded with all our possessions and began a two hundred mile journey to the farm. Behind us in the family’s 1937 Chevy sedan were Mother, Grandmother Carrie and young Richard. It would be an unforgettable journey through one of the most severe blizzards I have ever known.
Twelve hours later we arrived at the farm where the old house sat on the north face of Brushy Ridge, a desolate two story dwelling cloaked in snow. The front door stood open and snow covered most of the parlor floor. The house contained no heat, electric lights, (electricity had yet to be established in most rural areas) or running water. The bare windows were exposed to the driving wind and dust lay everywhere. A huge potbellied stove stood in the parlor and in the kitchen a cast iron cook stove occupied the room with a sagging chimney pipe riddled with rust holes.
Taking possession of the house was not an easy task and required all the family, including Richard. It wasn’t long and new pipes were attached to the stoves and loaded with wood found in a shed out back. Fires were lit and soon the cold although reluctantly began retreating from the house. It was as if the old structure awakened, creaking and groaning from the wonderful warmth that filled each room. Sheets and blankets were hung over the doors and windows to keep the biting cold outside.
When at last all of our possessions were inside the house, Father prepared to return to the city alone, to leave us to fend for ourselves. There was no choice in the matter, for he was required to report to work the next morning. The following weeks and months were difficult for all of us until the war ended and Father came home to stay.
A few days after our arrival at the farm, Mother informed Donnie and I that we would be going to the Brushy Ridge School located about a mile west of the house. She told us it was the same school Father had attended as a boy.
Brushy Ridge School
We left early for the short drive to the schoolhouse. I stared in speechless astonishment at the building, for it was nothing like I imagined it would be. The structure sat in the center of a clearing completely surrounded by forest. A small building in comparison to the one I had attended in Kansas City. The front end faced the road and revealed two doors and a small attached shed, housing a long handle water pump. Each side of the white clapboard structure contained four large windows. A belfry sat on the roof near the rear of the schoolhouse. Behind the building I could see two dilapidated privies setting near the edge of the woods and I knew the transition would not be easy for me, but I loved the beautiful country of my beginning.
The Chevy rolled to a stop near the front of the schoolhouse as I continued to stare in disbelief at what would be in the years to come a place of enduring memories. The teacher, Miss Ina stepped out one of the doors and greeted Mother, Donnie and I warmly and invited us in. I immediately took a liking to the young woman and at her beckoning strode inside the building. Once again I stared in disbelief at what I saw. A huge slate blackboard covered most of the back wall and directly in front of it sat the teacher’s desk. The students’ desks were assembled in four rows and faced the teacher’s desk. A huge wood burning stove occupied the center of the room and glowed red from the heat within. The north wall contained a library of assorted books. The first to catch my attention was the Call of the Wild and later I discovered Penrod and Sam, Robin Hood, Susannah the Pioneer Cow and many other favorites to be. A pantry was located near one of the front doors with a sink and cabinets for lunch pails or sacks. Between the two doors were wall mounted hooks for coats and caps and a poster of the Constitution.
After introductions Donnie and I were told to choose a desk from those that stood vacant. A desk of my choice stood near the north wall in front of a window and within arms length of the modest library. The window offered an exceptional view of the forest.
Completely fascinated by the surroundings, I sat at the desk unaware that other students had arrived. I looked up into nine curious faces, the entire student body, not including Donnie and me.
During the next five years three other teachers came and went. Miss Ruby followed Miss Ina and then Miss Little and finally Miss Mae who boarded with us during the week and helped make it possible for four eighth graders to graduate from the eighth grade.
Many of the rural one room schools were consolidating and a couple of years after I left, Brushy Ridge district closed its doors and the land and building were sold.
Annie Over was my favorite game, but there were others of which I have forgotten and of course there was soft ball. The forest around the building was also a play ground for hide and seek and Robin Hood and his merry men.
A Thanksgiving and Christmas play brought the parents in for a festive event with food laid out on a table. About three weeks before Christmas the teacher accompanied us into the woods to cut a cedar tree and nearly always it was too big and had to be trimmed back before setting it up, but still exceeded six feet. Most of the decoration was made by the students along with posters from crepe and construction paper.
An annual pie supper brought folks in from miles around and usually the building was packed. A local girl was selected as the prettiest from the most money donated in her name. The name Sally Ax Handle was nearly always placed on the board as a joke, but rarely won the title. All proceeds were used to purchase incidentals for the school.
Each autumn about a week before school commenced the parents of the students and neighbors gathered at the school building to clean the interior or make repairs. The privies were cleaned, but not before all wasps and spiders were evicted. The assaults on the building were met with stiff resistance by angry wasps. I delighted in the forays, showing off a bit swatting wasps inside the privies until they were driven away or perished on site. On occasion a Copperhead snake was found in a privy or on the play ground and if possible I would carry it into the woods and turn it loose.
I loved snowy days watching snow flakes gather on the window panes, enjoying the warmth of the room and dreaming, sometimes unintentionally ignoring a question from the teacher. I treasured the walk to and from school along a winding gravel road savoring the smells of the forest, unlike the city streets where noise was constant and the air stank of automobile exhausts.
In Memory of Brushy Ridge School
There stands among the briar bush and tall black oaks an old schoolhouse.
Its windows are dark and empty where within dwells the spider and mouse.
Time has rendered it irreparable since the children went away.
Its dress of white is now tattered and gray.
Inside its dreary realm are remnants of the past and they hold you there.
An old damp book once held by teacher with loving care.
On the slate cracked and stained are the words cat and four.
An empty ink bottle lies upon the floor.
There is melancholy about the place and it’s best to turn away.
I think it wise to remember Brushy Ridge from a childhood day. Adios
1 comment:
Is your new book about ready?
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