Not much I remember about my kindergarten year at Jefferson, or even if I attended an entire year, or a year and six months or so. When tenant farmers move, they move the first of March: enough time to settle in before plowing the fields, harrowing, seeding; enough time to cut potatoes into sections, each with an eye, and tramp them eye down in holes a foot apart, in rows two to three feet apart; enough time to prepare a brooder house for chicks, to settle in heifers to calf or to gather the ones born too early in the season and move them into heated pens at the new place. We moved to the Beh place either the spring of my kindergarten year or the spring of my first grade. My oldest brother was born when I was five, and I turned six in the spring of kindergarten. More than likely I did not finish kindergarten at Jefferson.
I do remember being betrayed. Of course, the betrayal had more to do with my actions than the teacher’s. If we were lucky students then, a teacher in a country school might have four years of college in a normal school. Most likely, two was enough for a woman to gain a certificate for teaching. Sometimes, the only qualification that a teacher had was that she graduated from high school. My older sister, when she returned from Washington, D.C., was asked to teach in a country school when the teacher fell ill. Not pregnant, but ill, for pregnant teachers were thought to expose young children to the harshness of existence. That prescription did not leave education until the late 1970s.
In a box of pictures, I have a black and white of Jefferson’s country school teacher and me sitting on a blanket in our front lawn. Behind her is a decorative woven-wire fence, crunched in places, to her right, my left, a lilac bush, a mainstay of rural lawns. She faced the camera while I sat beside her. Probably the photo was taken in August or early September, right after school started. If Mom prepared for her visit, as she did for anyone else’s, everything had to be clean and there must be lunch, more than likely sandwiches and lemonade. I’m sure we sat outside because the interior of our home spoke poverty. I don’t remember her visit, except what it appears to be in that picture.
Life on any farm is hard, labor intensive. Sweating becomes something that one does in spite of oneself. Salt pills are taken to keep in moisture when out in the field or gardening. On a farm, livestock don’t behave as they should, especially if one is loading them onto trucks for slaughter. Fruit jars don’t seal, meals are burnt, milk spilt. As an result, an occasionally swear word seeps out or is spit out of the corner of a mouth by either parent. My mother and father never used words that demeaned a person’s background or suggested sex in any way, but an occasionally swear word that invoked the name of God would ride on the summer air or hiss in the steam of a wood stove. My mother often swore in low German, never explaining to us the jest of what she said. If Dad understood, he went on about his business, perhaps grinning a little.
One morning at school, I said the word damn. I suppose it was in imitation of a parent, for no television back then; only the radio–the words vibrating there conformed to Rockwell’s paintings. Almost immediately I was singled out, embarrassed, maybe duly, taken into the coat room where the teacher, the one who had visited our farm house that autumn, on a day during which canning was set aside while tomatoes ripened in wire baskets, in a house with fresh, stretched, and starched lace curtains, my parents’ iron bed in the same room as the dining table and the player piano, to find out who I was, and who sipped my mother’s lemonade and probably ate cheese and baloney sandwiches on Mom’s homemade white bread, washed my mouth out with pink soap.