Stories by Louise Hullinger

Teenage Teacher

It was a cold, blustery February day, so bad that most of the parents came after their children in the early afternoon. I was l9 years old, the only teacher in a one room country school and had no idea that the radio had broadcast a noon weather report predicting that a winter storm. When the firs parent came to school to get his children he told me a blizzard was on the way. All five of his children piled in the cab of his red pickup and away they hurried on the road which was rapidly becoming white with falling snow.

Shortly thereafter two more fathers came after their youngsters, but the little girl, with whose folks I boarded, was still at school with me, for no one had come after us. Normally we walked the two and one half miles, as we had walked that morning.

I wondered if we should bundle up and head for home, or stay in the building. I had heard of teachers who had weathered storms by staying in the schoolhouse for the duration of a storm. I was willing to do that, but it seemed to me that since no one had come for us, they must think it was all right for us to walk home.

We started home about 2:30, a good hour after the others had gone. I banked the stove in the school house, shut it tightly (we never locked it) and we headed out into the wind, our scarves tightly wrapped around our heads. It was not terribly cold, but the wind was very penetrating. About half way home, in a bend in the road, was a large WPA dam, built to insure a water supply. When we reached the dam we decided to cross it because the wind in our faces was so fierce. We were almost across when we heard a snapping sound, and felt the ice breaking beneath us.

The 8 year old who trusted me implicitly was lighter than I but the ice was cracking under her, too. We must have been very near to the other edge and there was no turning back, or so it seemed to me. I said, "Pray, Ellie Mae" and I know she did. I know we both did. It seemed as though the ice‑encrusted tumbleweed that had packed themselves along the dam's edge provided a sort of bouncy springboard for us, and though our boots got wet, we made it across the ice, and on to the sidehill.

Even though we were no longer facing into the wind it was slow going up that hill trying to walk through that snow embosssed thistles and dried rosin weeds, and we seemed to slide back a little with each step forward. I kept saying, "Wiggle your toes, Ellie Mae." All I could think of was that if her feet froze, it would be my fault, because she trusted me and because I was the teacher who should have had better judgement.

We were almost home when the men of the family came for us, with a team and buggy. They had been trying to get their truck going ever since the weather report came out, but their truck was "froze up" and wouldn't start. When they realized how late it was they decided they had better come after us with the team. By that time the blizzard was getting worse, the snow was blowing in little swirls, and visibility was very low.

When we came into the house the mother clutched the eight year old to her and said to me, "You should have known better." I went up to my cold room, closed the door, crawled into bed, and cried myself to sleep. It wasn't long until the little eight year old came up to my room with a cup of hot cocoa for me, and said, "It's time for supper." We went downstairs and nothing was ever again mentioned about it.

The country school was one room, with a corridor at the front where coats and boots were left by the children when they came every morning. About 3 and one half feet from the floor there were places for the youngest children to hang their coats, and there was another such arrangement a foot higher for the older youth who attended the school.

There were l5 children, in all grades but one. By some fluke of nature or perhaps by planning, there were no sixth grade in the Gordon School. Miss Jane Pierson, 4l, had been the teacher for the past 6 months, but of all things, she was resigning to get married. No one had thought she would ever "tie the knot." It had not been of any immediate concern to the school board for

they did not imagine that Barney, her consort for the past few months, could be persuaded to propose.

But apparently Miss Jane Pierson had more going for her than anyone had ever surmised. Not only that she had taken care of everything, had covered all bases, as it were. She had found a replacement to complete the rest of the school year!

That was the real problem, the vexatious part of it. She had told them, when she resigned, that her mother could finish out the year, that she had asked and confirmed that she would be glad to do so. Miss Jane Pierson's mother was 66! A 66 year old would probably not be an appropriate teacher for most one room country schools, but for this one she would most

certainly not do.

The chairman of the Board of Education set to work to seek a replacement. The time was l943, in the midst of the war and most of the girls had gone off to factories where the money was much better and the opportunities to meet a man were decidedly superior. Every teacher in the county had already been brought back into the work force.

What was she to do, short of going back to teaching herself. And her own children were attending that school‑‑that was the only reason she had consented to serve on the Board in the first place.

But the one thing of which she was sure, beyond a reasonable doubt, was that the mother of Miss Jane Pierson would not, could not, should not be hired. She set about contacting the Teacher's Colleges for future graduates. That was how I came to get a job as a teacher in a one roomed country school when I was just l9 and had not completed my teacher's training.

The fantastic salary‑‑$89 per month, which was the county average‑‑ was the persuasive factor. How could anyone turn down such an offer? Even though it was February, the coldest month of the year in those parts, and even though I had never started a fire in my life, and even though that was the first qualification for a country school teacher, I accepted the proffered position.

Many times during the next few months I wondered what had ever possessed me to take the job away from a 66 year old who probably needed the money almost as badly as I did. However, from the viewpoint of the School Board I think I must have looked a whole lot better. I was young, eager, bright, and I was a hard worker. How hard I would have to work I was soon to find out.

Miss Jane Pierson had apparently considered that teaching the harmonica to the students was part of the curriculum, for that was the only assignment that anyone knew anything about. Each youngster had harmonica, and little numbered sheets to show them which holes to cover in order to get a certain note out of the instrument, but despite the effort that had gone into accumulating these mouth organs they still could not produce music. They could not produce music, at least what I considered music, nor did they seem particularly anxious to do so.

The first grader, who had now been in school for five months could not print her name, nor read a pre primer. She was the youngest of five bright children, and all of her brothers and sisters, who had been students under a great teacher for several years, could do most things, almost up to grade. It was obvious to me that Miss Jane Pierson had not really been a teacher at all. But how could I teach a 6 year old all she would need in the last few months of her first school year. I had cried many times over the poem about the boy who didn't pass, imagining how sad he must feel, and I knew that I could never fail any student of mine.

THE PRAIRIE FIRE

THE PRAIRIE FIRE

Excerpted From “Next Year Country” by Louise Hullinger

Folks around Draper, South Dakota, still refer to the summer of l930 as a Scorcher. (Folklore has it that you could fry eggs on the rooftops during August of that year!)

The searing sun turned the treeless plains into a tinderbox; the grasses, curled and brown, lay wilting alongside the road; the drouth-stunted weeds crunched underfoot. An idle flick from a cigarette, a careless spark from a running motor, even the hot sun beating down on a chip of broken glass could ignite the vast prairie turning it into a blazing holocaust.

Morning dawned bright and clear. There was an air of tranquility on the day the prairie fire struck. It was barely past noon when the farmer noted the first faint smell of smoke and, could see, in the distance, along the horizon, the shadowy tracings of a fire.

In the moments it took to reach his tractor he exulted in how much easier it was to plow safety furrows with his new tractor than it had been in the past with a team of horses. With a tractor he could maneuver the dried coulees, could easily cross the rough, untamed prairie.

Round and round the scattered farm buildings the farmer plowed, leaving protective furrows of freshly turned earth. Satisfied that his buildings were safe from fire he thought next to protect his winter's supply of cattle food. The furrows were purple-black and deep, so wide an errant fire could not cross.

As he finished fireproofing his own place, he noticed the wind had switched slightly. Shouting to his wife that he was going to plow around the neighbor's buildings, too, he hurried off, in high gear, cutting through the pasture, heading towards the little cottage where an old couple lived.

They were a little old couple, in their late 70's, stone deaf. They wouldn't have heard about the fire, but by this time they would have smelled it, and seen it, and would have had no way to get out of its path.

The wind, which had increased sharply, began whipping the fire along. Scientists can explain how hot air rises and causes movement which is wind; in the course of a prairie fire, fire begets wind, and when the fire gets a good strong toehold, there's very little that can hold it back.

The farmer could see it coming closer, could see the red tongues of fire consuming the brittle, toast-colored grass.

It was about that time that a neighbor lady from the west came to help. She and her young children, ages four through eight, brought two large cream cans full of water. They were prepared to help beat back the fire.

At almost the same time two rigs of men arrived with barrels of water, and heaps of gunnysacks. Leaping out of the trucks they grabbed the sacks, soaked them in water, and frantically began beating at the fire as it raged in front of them.

The neighbor lady, who hadn't waited to search for gunny sacks, grabbed what she could that wouldn't burn readily. She snatched the heavy denim jeans her eight year old was wearing, doused them in water, and began lashing furiously at the fire which by now was frighteningly near.

Moments later several more rigs of men arrived, all with barrels of water. One of the men, an old timer, looked at the highway, a natural barrier to the fire, and reckoned, gravely, that they would have to start a backfire if they were to break this one's force. He'd experienced many fires, and this one was one of the fiercest.

The wind was flogging the fire into a frenzy. The crackling heat provided a backdrop of sound effects for the treacherous wind. Without a backfire, there could be no stopping this fire.

A backfire was built to consume the combustible materials in the path of a fire, so that it would have no place to go, and would be forced to die. There is a trick to it, a technique, and the old man knew it. He and several others huddled together to protect the flame from the onslaught of the wind, nursing their flame along until it was ready.

With the highway as a safety zone behind them, the men worked, coaxing, channeling, directing their fire towards the big one, until there was nothing left between the two fires to devour.

Taming the rampant fire required all the strength the men had, and even after the wind had died down, and dusk had come, they did not dare to leave.

Wiping sweaty arms across their foreheads, sipping what water was left, they sprawled on the charred earth, wishing it might rain. They were exhausted, but so was the fire.

It wasn't until then that they heard the news about the farmer who had gone to plow the furrows around the neighbor's home. When the capricious fire had turned, it had trapped the farmer. He had jumped from his tractor, and ran back through the fire, protected by leather leggings, remnants of his World War I uniform, and his arms, which he used to shield his face.

When he was found he was dazed and incoherent. The neighbors who found him took him immediately to the nearest doctor, thirty miles away. The tractor, in the perverse way of things, was turning circles, as though performing a slow ballet movement. Treatment for burns in those days was vaseline to be slathered on, and gauze bandages. The neighbors transported him, covered him with an apron, and gave him sips of water from a thermos made from a mason jar wrapped in burlap. When they brought him home he was beginning to be lucid.

All that fall neighbors came to help him with the chores, and to haul him to the doctor. The gauze stuck to his burned flesh and tore at the wounds when it was peeled; the odor of rotting flesh left a stench that had to be borne; the days were filled with unceasing pain.

Without the neighbors the work could not have been done. One of them came nightly to do the chores, and to tell tall tales and jokes to make him laugh. He couldn't smile because that caused the blisters on his face to crack and ache, but his big shoulders shook with laughter, and his eyes gleamed.

Winter came, and with the spring, the earth had healed and so had the farmer. The winter snows had blanketed the earth and the melting rains had carried away all traces of the fire that had ravaged it. When the grasses poked through they formed a soft carpet of green. The plowed furrows looked oddly out of place, a vestige, a reminder of things past.

When the gauze and bandages were removed, the fingers were no longer thick from swelling; no longer was there a fear of infection.

When the first green shoots of grain peeked through the ground, the farmer headed into the fields again. His arms were scarred and brown, in stark contrast to the pink-white of his arms above the elbow, where he had always rolled his blue denim shirt sleeves, but his steps were youthful, and plans for the new season began to take form.

It must have been a year later when a magazine salesman found his way to the farmer's home. "Wasn't it somewhere around here," the salesman asked, "where a man got burned trying to plow around an old couple's place?" But the salesman was anxious to sell magazines and didn't wait for a reply. "They say the old couple never realized he was plowing to try to save their place, and I've heard he never told them."

The farmer traded two old batteries for a subscription to a magazine, and shook the salesman's hand when he left.

"Good luck," the farmer said, and added, "Don't bother to stop at the little farm to the east; the old couple who lived there passed on last winter."

....................

The farmer in the story was my father, Helmer Liffengren, of Draper, South Dakota. We had only recently moved to that farm when the prairie fire broke out, and we did not know any of our neighbors well. But, in Dakota, neighbors were a precious commodity, something that one cherished and greatly appreciated.

I have written this story not only to pay homage to my father, but to cite the Rankins, the Dowlings, and the others who helped in our time of great need. I would like to go even farther than that: I should like this story to honor good neighbors wherever they may be. @

This true story was first published in the May/June, 1993 issue of South Dakota magazine under "Remembering."

India

My husband Clif and I spent 3 months in India. India is a world in itself. Sri Lank hangs below it like a teardrop. India is 2,100 miles from the north to the south, 2000 miles from the Indian ocean.

We saw many Sikhs. They do not shave nor smoke. They have thick beards, uncut hair, and wear turbans. All Sikhs are Singhs but not all Singhs are Sikhs. Punjabi men wear ballooning pants. The woman wear pajama like pantaloons, topped by knee length blouses nipped in at the waist.

The dhoti, which is what Ghandi wore, is a white like a sarong or loincloth. They also wear shirts with tails flapping out, and maybe a sleeveless sweater. Nehru wore the high collard tunic. Jains wear white cloths over their noses, to avoid breathing and thus destroying small insects.

All the wealth was taken from the Maharajas through their death taxes, but they are still around, some earning money by renting out their huge places to those who come to India to visit. We saw snake charmers, and men who had red teeth from chewing betel leaves.

Castes do not encourage human charity. There seems to be a rickshaw caste. India flows by inscrutable with creaking of well wheels, the clamor of crows.

We were living in the State of Gujarate, a part of the subcontinent of India which hadn’t been visited by the seasonal monsoon for “3 or 4 years.” We were there during the months of Sept. Oct. Nov. and Dec., a time when, had I been back home in the US, I would have savored the crisp autumn weather. Instead, temperatures in our city of Ahmedabad rose to well over 100 degrees every day. My husband was picked up by a chauffeur and went to work every day, leaving me alone. Because of the extreme heat, I didn’t venture out of the hotel past 9:00 a.m.

I was a stranger in a foreign land, and time was heavy on my hands. I had brought my own typewriter, but it wasn’t company enough for me. And while I eventually met people who spoke fluent English it didn’t happen those first few weeks. Therefore I seemed to spend a lot of time just peering out the window.

Behind our hotel was the dry Sabermathi River bed. Here there were literally hundreds of make-shift huts, erected by Hindu farmers who had no source of income because their land, without rain, could produce no crops. They had moved, in droves, into the city where they hoped that kindly folk would feed their cows which are considered sacred. Perhaps, too, they planned that the men could find work as waiters in fine hotels such as the one in which we lived.

The woman’s work began at dawn. Dressed in bright cotton saris, they wound their way past the hotel to the wells, where they filled their clay jugs, and balancing them on the heads carried them back to their huts. Then, to cleanse their naked young, they poured and splashed water over them in a bath ritual before they were fed.

Next they began washing their laundry against blocks of cement, flailing and beating the laundry. Their laundromat provided instant drying!

I felt so sorry for them. They were so poor. They had no amenities. They worked so hard, for so little. Even the children didn’t seem to have anything; of all the children I saw frolicking in the sun only two appeared to be attending school, always there were men asleep on charpoys arms thrown across their eyes to shield their eyes from the brightness of the son. Some of them, I imagined, had worked during the night; others perhaps could find no work. Only occasionally did I see a man help with a child. All of a sudden I was forcibly struck by what must be a universal truth.

You need to be needed. Who should be feeling sorry?

Here I was, living in an air conditioned room where dinner was provided by the staff. I didn’t have to lift a finger. But I was far from friends and relatives, away from my church, away from my comfortable, modern home. And there was nothing to do.

The universal truth is that we need to be needed. Society is not so unjust after all. Even the poor have friends. All the money in the world cannot make one happy. Even the poor have those who need them.

At a 2-day vacation in Rajasthan, we stayed at the famous 15th C Jain temple where we were greeted with closed palms, folded to the chin as they bowed. We draped leis made of sweet smelling yellow and white flowers and literally rolled the red carpet out for us!

Following a temple tour we were served a Jain vegetarian dinner on thalis (metal trays) of poories, chappati, dahl (lentils), and curds. We slept on hard, flat mattresses with feather quilts complete with a canopy for mosquito control. You can’t kill mosquitoes but you can hide from them! For bathing there were pails of water and a plank to stand on in a corner room. Outside our windows black-faced langurs scampered through the trees, a sari clad woman sat polishing one of the dinner trays with sand.

The next morning our driver took us to Udaipur, “the city of white marble palaces,” through gates studded with iron spikes once used as protection against enemy elephants. We toured the White Marble palace that hung over the edge of Lake Picohola, saw the Peacock courtyard, many pavilions, & a 3rd floor outdoor garden with huge old trees, made possible because rooms had been added later.

Our room that night was in the Lake Palace Hotel, accessible only by boat. This beautifully appointed summer palace resembled a white floating jewel, another legacy of the maharani, the ruler who claimed they descended from the Sun. To complete a perfect weekend we saw the world renowned puppet show. Ford for souvenirs we had our pictures taken in regal Rajasthan costumes...

Egypt

Egypt

I'd waited most of my life to see the Sphinx, the pyramids, and the huge replicas of Ramses I and Ramses II. The sand was whiter and the temperature hotter than I'd ever imagined, and I relished every moment.

Our guide, a young Fulbright scholarship winner who could speak several languages fluently, thought English was one of them. It was I suppose, if it doesn't seem important that accents are put in the wrong place. It took a while for my brain to translate most of what he was saying, and so I did not notice that the only female under fifty who was with us was wandering away. I did not see that she was particularly attractive.

But here, in Egypt, under that burning sun, against the back drop of the aura of the Sphinx, with the only competition being widows, or old maid aunts--well, here this "younger woman" seemed to have great appeal for the young natives. Our guide informed us, facetiously I assumed, that blonds were in high demand, and that a blond was worth seven camels!

Having explained that our guide led us into ancient tombs that were still being excavated. The signs showed that the work was being done by Germans. After bending over, leaning down, crouching along, we wended our way down into the ancient tombs that lay beneath the pyramids. Once inside, when we no longer had to lean over, we stood up, and saw the place was beautiful, with colors of orange, green, and blue as bright and clear as the day they were done. How those colors could last so many years is just the sort of miracle that Eastman Kodak seeks.

I wanted to have a memento to show when I got home, so I quickly took my camera and snapped two pictures. From nowhere guards appeared, ready to wrestle the camera from me. There were apparently signs that said that taking pictures was verboten. How could that be, I wondered, since we'd been taking pictures everywhere else, and no one seemed to mind.

For some reason photographing this area was off limits. I had a nightmare vision of myself gradually wasting away in an Egyptian prison, bars in front of me, sand whirling everywhere, so I grabbed a dollar bill from my wallet and pressed it into the hands of the nearest guard. He took it, quickly pocketed it and quietly moved away. If I hadn't been so startled I would surely have given him more than that but the dollar did the trick.

I still have that picture. It's of a stiff-necked Egyptian beauty, looking to one side only, and pictures of egrets, monkeys, and asps.

When we crouched down to go back up out of the tombs, the sun was a welcome sight, and so were smells that hadn't been confined for hundreds of years.

In a shelter erected for tourists we all bought water for a dollar a bottle. Sold in blue bottles, it was cool and refreshing. True luxury was being able to sit in the shade provided by the shelter. The white-hot outside heat penetrated our very being, though we wore hats with shades, covered our arms, and wore either white or light clothing.

Even the men who did the excavating wore all white, with nary a grease spot like we'd see on Americans. The bleaching power of the sun at work.

The three pyramids outside Gaza were surrounded by camels. Anyone here who said he'd would walk a mile for a camel would be considered crazy. Who could walk a mile in this hot sun?

The men who were begging everyone to take rides on their camels were taking pictures of us, with our cameras, and charging us two dollars. When I took a picture of a little boy on a donkey he came screaming at me, "Pix, monee, monee, monee" and he kept up the chatter until finally I handed him two dimes. He screamed some more, and finally, I took out a little 2 inch laminated midget five dollar bill, and handed it to him. He took it, turned it over and over in his hand, with a puzzled expression on his face. I wonder when he found out it was a fake, and if he valued it anyhow. I did.

They had a ploy of whirling around with their donkeys and demand that we take their pictures. It was their source of income.

Other entrepreneurs sold jewelry made of stones. They grabbed your arm and beseeched you to buy. Their arms were dirty and their galabayos were dirty, and most of what they held wasn't worth anything. Our guide told us, "Pay no attention, and do not buy from them for their merchandise is no good." However, because they rammed the items in your face and seemed to be have-nots most of us handed them a dollar or two. For one dollar I merited a cheesecloth to wrap around my head to keep sand away. For another I got blue stones, which if you picked up a rock on the streets in Chicago and called it a Chicago stone, would be the same thing. That broke before our bus pulled away.

At the Bedouin fair we found hordes of people milling about, each with his own wares to sell. One followed me to the bus, urging me to buy something, and when I did several others also accosted me. An old woman sat nursing her baby, with chickens for sale at her feet. Her dress was black, and her chickens were red ones.

For sale were clothes, modern shoes, and thongs, stone jewelry, pots, pans, and live sheep. Also woolly rugs which several on our bus bought. The guide said they would start smelling because they were not properly tanned.

It was evening when we drove away. I still wish I'd bought a woolly rug.