Chapter 1 - Conjuring up a Classroom

Introduction

     Close your eyes and think back to your grade school days. Conjure up just one image. What is it? For me it’s the visitors peeking into my school, tapping at the windows and calling to their friends to come see “a real classroom.”

     Greenfield Village was a popular field trip for school children and out-of-town visitors in the 1950’s. Well-trained tour guides led these groups through the Village during the school year -- they couldn't wander on their own except during the summer months. They moved from building to building entering the designated ones to learn about American history. Perhaps assuming our school building was next on their agenda, some visitors -- especially the children – would rush to peek in the windows of our historical one-roomed schoolhouse. Cupping their fingers around their eyes for a better view, in seconds their visions would clear and their minds would register what they were seeing. Then they would screech in surprise “There’s a REAL CLASSROOM in there!” This scenario was repeated several times a day. I never quite mastered the art of ignoring them; in fact I rather enjoyed being an object of interest by the strangers.

     I attended the Greenfield Village Schools in Dearborn, Michigan for seven years in the 1950’s, from kindergarten through sixth grade. The school was founded in 1929 by Henry Ford who believed children “learned by doing.” Although Mr. Ford had been dead for three years and Mrs. Ford died during my first month in school, the influence of the Ford family was felt throughout the history of the school which closed for good in 1969.

     It was a different kind of grade school, traditional in some ways, innovative in others. Our classes were held in historic buildings, and we traveled by foot throughout the village on a daily basis to go to gym, music, art, lunch and special programs. From kindergarten through fourth grade we had weaving classes on looms. In fifth and sixth grades we were taught pottery. Every year we had swimming class. A herd of sheep ran loose though the village and we needed to watch where we were stepping to avoid their droppings. There were peacocks near Miller School and Susie the Goat wandered freely for a year or two.

  There was a barn fire which killed some of my favorite carriage horses and I remember crying when I learned about it. The horses were buried down in the woods at the far end of the Village property and had to be reburied when their stomachs exploded from smoke fumes some days later. At least that is the horrific story that was told at the time and I have no reason to doubt it.

     Every grade had about ten boys and ten girls, and each class was generally held in a separate historical building. In the 1950’s kindergarten was in Ann Arbor House, first grade in Secretary House, second grade in McGuffey School, third grade in Town Hall, fourth grade in Clinton Inn, fifth grade in Miller School and sixth grade in Scotch Settlement School. However my class had two and a half years in Ann Arbor House, surely a record if anyone had kept such records. That’s because in 1950 and 1951, both kindergarten and first grade were held in Ann Arbor House and then for some unknown reason, we spent a few months of fourth grade in Ann Arbor House, too.

 Robert Frost House in recent years

(Ann Arbor House in the 1950's) 

     The McGuffey School House, a log cabin, was my favorite school building because of its warm comfy feeling and the good-natured loving teacher Mrs. Doremus. Our other classrooms were more formal – either the colonial-style rooms of Ann Arbor House and Town Hall or the stilted one-room traditional schools of Miller and Scotch Settlement.

      My earliest memory of the Henry Ford Museum predates kindergarten. It took place in January of 1950 and involved a special visit to the Henry Ford Museum with my family. I was four years old and the museum seemed enormous. When we reached the railroading section I couldn't help but notice the tracks upon which all the very big trains were resting. To my imaginative mind, the giant trains were moving back and forth on the tracks, posing a deadly threat. I stopped cold. Clearly not aware of the danger, the rest of my family calmly ambled across the tracks and continued on their tour. They didn't notice that I no longer accompanied them. Did I mention how big the engines were and that I was small for my age?

     I remember my terror and eventual tears as my family left me stranded on the wrong side of the tracks. Apparently all ended well as we had our family photo taken that day with old tintype studio equipment. Or maybe the photo was taken before my narrow escape. I can’t tell from the wary expression on my face.

      I scanned some of the photos in my memoir from old Heralds, the amazing books that recorded Mr. Ford’s schools from their early years until 1952. The Heralds were published monthly during the school year on the printing presses of the Edison Institute and bound into dark green hard-covered books once a year. The high school students served as the writers, photographers and printing press helpers. They were a great resource. I knew there was a good reason they've been gathering dust in our family home for decades.

     Looking back from the vantage point of the fifty years NOT spent attending the Greenfield Village Schools, I wouldn't call these my favorite years. There are unpleasant memories I either skipped altogether as I was writing or that I wrote up and edited out. What follows are the things I want to remember. Going back to that one image we conjure up of our grade school days, I remember one other thing about those roving bands of tourists tapping at our windows – I remember feeling lucky and special. In those people’s eyes I belonged in this place, this living history museum. And deep inside I smiled.

Chapter 2 The Note in the Oven - Kindergarten

1950 - 1951


     My educational career at Greenfield Village began with a pre-school tea on the day before school started. I know this because there were two photos of it in the Herald…and a pretty fancy tea it must have been. Look at the boys in jackets, the floral centerpiece, the glass and china. Finding these photos sparked a vague memory of being nervous about such a gathering, attending and making a friend named Lucy. Andy, another classmate, says she actually remembers the event, which is mightily impressive. Here are Andy’s words: “I remember a sit-down with paper and crayons and we could draw. My mother was there. I drew a house that was all black, no other color, and my mother commented on it being all black. I told her that it was the only crayon I could get my hands on.”

  Ann Arbor House was home to both kindergarten and first grade for a few years in the early 1950’s. The pretty little white house sat on top of a hill and the children entered from opposite ends of the building. First-graders entered through the front door which faced the street. On the back of the house was the door to the kindergarten basement classroom, cut into the side of the hill. Today that door is covered up with sod. Both grades shared a playground and athletic field for recess.

  The shared recess time is important because I have vivid memories of pretending to be a first-grader. When their bell rang ending playtime, they were trained to run up the hill to the front door and file inside. For reasons that today are obscure and undoubtedly flawed, that same bell also galvanized me to call out to my classmates “I’m in first grade!” and run up the hill after them. I would then pass right by their door and run back down the other side. It’s embarrassing to think how much I enjoyed this exercise.

  My absolutely favorite activity, though, was the sand table. If you were particularly short, you climbed up on a stool to reach the finely filtered, beautiful white sand complete with enthralling sandbox toys. I remember vying with the other Betsy in my class for space to play. Once in great frustration I simply climbed into the center of the table so I could reach enough sand. That’s what I wrote in 2008. A few months later, I unearthed what I had written about this same episode when I was in sixth grade: “I was quite small so whenever we were playing in the sandbox, I jumped in the middle and stole all the sand.” Memory is a funny thing – I’m not sure which story is correct. But I was the smallest kid in the class. And I did like the sand.

  In one corner of the room were twenty small chairs and a blackboard which I will forever associate with the first song we were taught. The tune and the words were neither pretty nor instructive but I can still sing them today: “Apple tree, apple tree, send a big one down for me.”

     Weaving on real looms was a special pleasure. There were enough looms for each child and they were stored on shelves in one corner of the room and brought out weekly. Greenfield Village was positively obsessed with weaving and I have devoted an entire chapter to the subject later in my memoir.

  Our teacher was young and kind – Miss Turner. One day she asked me to take a written message upstairs to the first-grade teacher. I had noticed that other children had been asked to perform this important task and I was honored to have been chosen on this particular day. But as soon as I was handed the envelope, I panicked. Suddenly the old steps, worn down by thousands of footsteps before me, loomed large and foreboding in front of me.

     I thought about what I’d have to do. I’d have to mount the steps – alone. At the top of the steps, I’d have to open the door to the kitchen – alone. I would wend my way through the house to reach the first-grade rooms. In my imagination, I would confidently sail into their classroom ignoring the twenty pairs of older eyes all staring at me, and politely hand the teacher the note. The more I imagined all those people looking at me, the more I realized that I had to avoid that nightmare scenario. I made it as far as the antique kitchen when my eyes spotted a black iron oven built into the brick wall. Its heavy door opened easily. I simply left the note in the oven. Whether or not the envelope was important and whether or not its non-delivery caused any repercussions between the two teachers I’ll never know. I do know that I still feel guilty about the note in the oven.

I took this photo through the window in 2011. Today a phone is in the oven and the iron door is gone.

We spent all day at school and perhaps most five-year-olds still napped. My mother told me I gave up napping at age two. Nonetheless we were all herded up two flights of stairs for naptime. The first flight led to the kitchen; the second set of steps was tiny and ended in the small darkened second floor of this house. Here I had to endure a torturous hour of lying still on a cot. It might have been 40 minutes; it felt like two hours. I remember staring at the wall, window and ceiling and hating every second. It amazed me then and still does that some children actually fell asleep.

  “Sometimes after lunch we fed the fish at the covered bridge. Only a few of us went at a time.” I wrote these words about my kindergarten experience when I was 12, but I still remember the fun of the fish rushing to eat the bread crumbs. I wonder if the fish have returned to the ponds under the bridge…

Chapter 3- We Met Santa in the Woods in 1950 and 1951

Chapter 3    1950 & 1951

     The magic of Santa Claus is forever captured in the memories of those of us fortunate enough to have met Santa in the Woods. Imagine an evening hayride through an enchanted forest to a toy-filled cabin in the snowy woods. The visit began with your parents driving you only a few miles from home to a woodsy area you’d never seen before. Then we drove down a narrow lane. I couldn’t really imagine what the hayride would be like and just being outside at night was a good kind of scary. We arrived at… well, I didn’t know where we were. I was a little bit awed by the surroundings.

     The next thing I remember is the hayride. It was cold and snowy and I think there were sleigh bells. We were riding on top of a hay-strewn flatbed with just my classmates and a driver who didn’t turn around and didn’t speak. He seemed to be bundled in warm clothing and he kept the two strong horses rhythmically plodding through the black night. Our eyes must have been huge as we tried to see through the dark forest to the lights of the Workshop. We were so excited – the long, long ride would bring us to Santa Claus!

     Looking back – could it really be nearly sixty years ago? – I realize once again that memories are sometimes faulty. Would we have been put on a hayride without adult supervision, most likely several sets of parents? I think not. Was the driver as huge and ominous as I remember? Unlikely. And the “long, long ride” must have been less than a mile. I guess I was rather frightened but happy.

     Once we arrived I see from the photos that we were greeted by Santa. I don’t actually remember him – only the anticipation of seeing him. I do remember that the cabin was full of wonderful and amazing toys, none of them wrapped. I remember feeling very small in the crowded cabin and awed by the array of choices. I don’t really know how we were matched with our gifts from Santa. I’m sure there were no fights over the toys – only joy. I came home with a stuffed animal, a green elephant with white ears. I must have loved it a lot because it didn’t survive to my adulthood, as some of my less-loved ones did.

     When we were first-graders, the wonders of that beautiful night were repeated. Our hayride and cabin were different from the year before but the magic was the same. We rode in a wagon pulled by a tractor instead of a flatbed and horses, which for this horse-loving little girl was a little disappointing. Luckily my parents had prepared me for the change so I was not surprised. And the tractor was really fun. We were so fortunate that it was another lovely and snowy evening. Santa in the Woods was just as thrilling an experience as the first year but without the anxiety. 

     Years later I learned that this Greenfield Village tradition was made possible in 1950 and 1951 by our parents who quickly organized to arrange and pay for the Santa in the Woods event to continue when Mrs. Ford died in 1950. The tradition had been started by Mr. and Mrs. Ford who were very fond of children and derived great pleasure from arranging for the youngest children attending the Village schools to visit Santa in his Workshop. The workshop was a little cabin conveniently located on the Ford Estate.
The year Mrs. Ford died, her brother Roy Bryant and his wife Katharine hosted “Santa in the Woods” on their estate just west of Fair Lane. The photos show a cute little white clapboard house with a matching picket fence and a very rustic cabin interior. The Bryant’s had several grandchildren attending the Village Schools so they were probably happy to help ensure that the tradition continued.

     After that one year at the Bryant’s, Santa’s Workshop returned to Fair Lane. Clara Ford’s estate must have been settled for our 1951 visit because parts of her doll collection were offered as toys that year. I know I came home with a wonderful doll labeled from Mrs. Ford’s collection. Actually, I assume it was wonderful. I imagine I would have enjoyed it more had I been allowed to play with it. My mother carefully placed it high on a shelf in her closet where it remained until I was 47-years-old.

     In any case, visiting Santa in the Woods was a magical evening both years and I’m very grateful to the Ford’s, the Bryant’s, the parents’ committee and indeed to everyone who contributed to give us such lifelong wonderful memories.

Chapter 4 - The Automatic Lock -- First Grade

1951-1952

Robert Frost House in 2014

(We had 1st grade here)

     Here we are again in Ann Arbor House in Greenfield Village (year 2 if you're counting) but this year we were the Big Kids on the First Floor. I was really proud to be counted among the first-graders, having so admired them when I was only five. The fact that we had less than half the space we’d had in kindergarten did not figure into my prideful calculations. I was just pleased to be counted among the older students.

     The first room on your right as you entered the front door was used for group activities such as musical instruments. I was especially enamored of the tambourine which made all kinds of wonderful sounds. Of course there were other musical choices such as the triangle, jingle bells, finger cymbals, wood block, hand cymbals and drums. But none were as versatile as the tambourine. Don’t you just love the sound your fist makes when you bang on the tambourine’s drum and the shimmering sounds of the small shaking metal strips that follow? I do. It’s very satisfying.

Robert Frost House

    The back room on the right was our classroom. It had small wooden desks neatly lined up in rows. That room had a bathroom in the far corner.

Robert Frost House 2012

    I remember the bathroom in particular because its door automatically locked when closed – it had been a house, not a school. This was fine while in use but was a problem if shut afterwards as no one else could use the bathroom. Luckily the windows of Ann Arbor House were low to the ground and in those days it was possible to reach that unlocked window from the outside. It was also fortunate that there were kids who enjoyed being sent outside to unlock the bathroom door. My name may have topped the list of “kids who like to unlock the door.” In retrospect, I can’t imagine what they were thinking to have a bathroom door with an automatic-lock in a first-grade classroom.

     My academic memories are not without trials. We learned to read with Dick, Jane, Sally and Spot. I enjoyed the process and looked forward to each new page of their adventures with anticipation. Would Spot chase his ball into a wardrobe and fall down a hole? No wait, that was years later and it wasn’t Spot who did that. The desks had hinged vertical slots for papers and books. It’s where we kept our Dick-and-Jane workbooks. Now what could happen if you had your daily milk break on top of the desks? Yes, it happened to me. I accidentally spilled my milk into this “well” which caused all the pages of my workbook to stick together. I was so shy and embarrassed that I spent weeks living in fear of my teacher discovering that I hadn’t been keeping up in the workbook. It even occurred to me as an adult to wonder why Mrs. McAllen didn’t notice the problem. However my memory of an entire year of lost learning evaporated a few years ago when I came across the old workbook – only three pages were stuck together.

     My other academic problem was not being able to see the pages in my workbook because my hair fell into my eyes. I kept losing the bobby pins which held it back. Mrs. McAllen started bringing in bobby pins from home for me. That was a strong memory and I was wondering if it was true when I found my only school picture, which is from First Grade. The bobby pins are clearly holding back my bangs. My mother must have decided to let my hair grow long because the following year I wore braids without bangs. In this case, I can see that my memory was undoubtedly accurate.

Robert Frost House

(My class spent 2 1/2 years in this building)

2014