The boredom of summer on the farm could only be broken by the return to school, and then something better happened
By the middle of August, the swimming hole was no longer inviting, having shrunk in diameter and depth as the little creek that fed it gradually decreased in volume.
Harvest preparations were in full swing, meaning my mother no longer had time to go for long walks with me out the country lane. Friends with leisure time were scarce, conscripted instead for picking vegetables in the large gardens that were a mainstay of most farm families.
I felt lonely, so lonely that the only thoughts that lifted my spirits were thoughts of school opening in fall.
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The cool sprinkles of water will feel good each weekday morning as Mom dips the big orange comb into the basin of water to dampen my long thick hair. I look forward to the gentle pull and tug of her hands weaving it into two long braids. There will be the thrill of slipping into my new plaid dress with the Bertha collar and matching green socks.
It will be exciting to sit at the big bay window with my school bag and lunch kit, waiting for the horse-drawn van to come up the lane. Like a bunch of chattering magpies, my friends and I will sit facing each other as we jiggle down the washboard road to school.
Will the friendly caretaker be out sweeping the concrete steps, his lined face breaking into a broad grin as he greets us?
I can almost smell the chalk dust in stale classrooms.
There will be the smooth freshness of a new notebook opened to page one, and a long yellow pencil that has just been sharpened for the first time.
After a long summer vacation, I will have fun sitting with classmates for lunch, swapping sandwiches and cookies. There is the thrill of being entrusted to pick up the mail at the post office, and it means I may also have the privilege of occasionally spending five cents for a chocolate bar at the general store.
I hope the new teacher will read aloud to us about the adventures of the Bobbsey Twins while we cool off after a vigorous game of scrub baseball during noon hour.
This year, I am not going to squeal when grasshoppers in the playground whir up around my bare legs.
The boys will probably be drowning gophers in the schoolyard again and I already hope for that glad sense of relief when a gopher gets away.
I will still hide in the girls’ washroom when the boys chase me with a garter snake, though.
Will the steady tick-tock of the hexagon clock on the back wall nearly lull me to sleep at 3:45 every afternoon? Maybe I’ll get homework assignments to help fill the long, lonely evenings on the farm.
I am sure my dog, Tubby, will come running out to welcome me home as I descend the narrow steps of the van, and as we both bound through the back door, my mother will be in the kitchen making supper.
I could hardly wait.
And then the unexpected happened.
A gear broke in the combine, bringing harvest to a halt and necessitating a trip to Carman, a town 25 kilometres away.
“I have to stay home and can peaches,” Mom said to Dad, “but maybe Alma could go with you and buy her school supplies.”
Since Dad had seldom darkened the door of a bookstore in his life, it meant I was going to be given the sole responsibility of buying what I needed.
All the way there I mulled over my list. When Dad parked our ’49 Austin, he reached into the bib pocket of his overalls, took out his wallet and handed me a $10 bill.
In all my 11 years I had never had so much money to spend on school supplies, and in Watson’s Bookstore at that.
The school supplies were piled to the ceiling, dwarfing the pale gaunt figure of Mr. Watson as he shuffled along the aisles of his domain, a pair of spectacles perched on his sharply pointed nose.
As the little bell over the door stopped tinkling, I breathed in deeply of the silence and the smells — stacks of fresh white paper, rows and rows of new textbooks, boxes of wax crayons, trays of coloured pencils, geometry sets in neat tin boxes, long pink erasers, shiny wooden rulers, thumb tacks, paper clips, sketch pads, scrapbooks, three-ring binders and a dazzling array of brightly covered notebooks.
For the time being, Mr. Watson and I were the only occupants of this vast storehouse of treasures. A man after my own heart, he let me stroll the aisles, debating my choices, pondering my potential purchases.
Then he drew me aside, asked me what grade I was entering, and asked to see my list. As he unveiled more and more gems, I had to become more and more discriminating, all the while bearing in mind the limitations imposed upon me by the $10 bill in my pocket.
At last, I had a neat pile of school supplies piled on the counter, and Mr. Watson rang them up, poking his bony finger at the proper buttons so the prices would pop up in the little window along the top of the ornate silver cash register.
I held my breath.
Supposing the total comes to more money than I have, which choices should I forego?
The notebook with the red glossy cover? Or the one with kittens on the front? The rainbow-coloured pencil or the neat little box of paperclips?
The agony was unbearable.
Not only that, but Mr. Watson might think I was a terrible student if I couldn’t even estimate my purchases, and it was important that he think well of me now that I had used up a considerable amount of his time.
Ping, ping, ping.
The total appeared in large black figures: $8.37.
I slid my $10 bill across the counter and Mr. Watson counted out the change into my open hand. Then he tore off a large piece of brown paper from the roll at the end of the counter, snugly wrapped up my parcel and deftly tied it with white shop cord. Carrying my parcel, Mr. Watson walked with me all the way to the front of the store and politely thanked me for my purchases.
When the bell above the door tinkled as he opened it, Mr. Watson was hearing the echo of the cash register that had just rung up another sale, but in my mind, I could hear a school bell ringing, summoning me to class.
