March 30th, 2020 at 9 AM
Reading Township, Illinois
I attended a school in a village, a village more
than a century and a half old by the time my parents bought a farm seven miles
outside of village limits. My parents gave me that village with its storybook
school, and I’ll always be thankful to the two.
Dad, Edward William, assumed he could transfer
to a General Motors plant in Flint. All the neighbors drove to Flint for work.
He bet he could transfer and carpool when mom and dad signed the land contract
offered by Florence and Richard Bixby, the couple who had built a custom home
on the ridge above Euler Lake. Our family had bought the historic farmhouse, a two-story
building with an outhouse, a garage, three farm buildings and a corn crib.
Mom, Joan Elizabeth, built an incubator in the
Michigan basement, an earthen floor with fieldstone foundation walls. She filled
the incubator, just a bank of red heat lamps, with scores of chicks purchased
at the hardware store in Durand. We stood on the landing and watched her toss
the chicks feed, hearing the yellow fluff balls peep. We had real chicks in our
basement for that Easter. When old enough, she transferred her flock into a
back building and soon we were frying fresh eggs for breakfast.
Across Braden Road stood the Bixby barn. The
barn sign declared: Richard Bixby 1927, a sign that came down in time. Farmers
were proud of their barns, many purchased from the Sears & Roebuck's
Catalog. It took years of hard work to purchase a barn, afford it and raise
it. The Sears & Roebuck’s Catalogs we found in the outhouse, along with
a stack of corn cobs. It took a day for Matt and I to figure that riddle out.
My neighbor Richard Bixby was born on the farm
his father inherited. Very soon after we moved, the Bixbys erected a centennial
farm marker donated by the power company, Consumers Power, honoring the family
for starting on the land, circa 1870. It would take until 2070 before we could
put a centennial farm market before the five acres owned by my dad and mom. Our
family might never achieve centennial farm status for what was our five-acre
plot. The farm remains in the family, but the nephew who owns it purchased it
from a third party.
I soon learned to read the barns to know the
families: Rathbun, Sills, McGuire, Mangan, Wooden, Woodgate, Honke and more. By
a covered feed trough made of rough boards, an ancient Walnut tree grew on the
fence row between the Bixby and McGuire lands, right at the turn in the road.
It dropped nuts wrapped in a green husk that almost immediately turned brown. I
found the limbs of that great Walnut remarkably easy to climb, as easy as
climbing a ladder.
Mrs. Bixby taught first graders at Byron
Elementary School, and I found my name on the roster outside her room. I
couldn't read the list beyond the names, but it listed names found on the
barns. I was brought to the door by Mr. Eaton, then the principal, a man
distinguished by a big smile, powerful shoulders, a compact body and a touch of
baldishness. I spent hours in his office for observation as my new school tried
to figure me out. We often shared lunch time. The lunchroom would send
hamburgers.
Mrs. Bixby had been anticipating me. She had
read my records from Robert Frost Elementary in Warren, Michigan. She had yet
to meet the children who were now living in her former home. I didn't know that
my bedroom had served as her office. I noticed that marbles set on the
floorboards would roll to the walls.
She had taught hundreds of children to read so
my literacy was inevitable. She had a fine-tuned plan to teach me how to read.
Educated at Central Michigan Normal School, she had begun her career teaching
in a single room schoolhouse. So much could be learned by a researcher about
this educational pioneer. We honored her with a two-page article in our
yearbook. A gorgeous color photograph depicted her among her final class of
first graders.
I began in her most basic reading circle,
reading words she put up on an easel board. She called on us in turn to say the
word spelled upon the card. She called on me. “All, am, arm, at, are, ate”, I
read. She asked me to repeat. “All, am, arm, at, are, ate”, I read again.
“Billy, are you remembering the words?” “I don’t think so, Mrs. Bixby,” I
answered. She moved me into the next group.
Florence and Richard Bixby made for great
neighbors. Mrs. Bixby brought her magazines to us as soon as she had read them.
She put Newsweek, Time and Life in our mailbox, mere days after the postman
delivered them to her mailbox. I flipped through the magazine, examining the
pictures and reading the captions. I wasn’t ready to read the college
level writing of the articles.
She sat warm evenings on her splendid porch
overlooking Euler Lake, sitting on a wrought iron lawn chair made by Woodard
Furniture in Owosso, enjoying the cozy cushions and the view. Reading cover to
cover, she had well informed opinions on any topic of the day. This is where I
found her when I came to announce my graduation with a provisional teaching
certificate from Michigan State University. We sat on her porch and talked
until dark, drinking lemonade.
By Swroche - Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=21572163
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