Our family has moved to another farm a few miles outside of Colborne, a small town near Lake Ontario. This is our third move in three years. The teacher at this one-room school is Mr. Pratt, who is just out of normal school they say. This is his first year of teaching. He is pale, with blond hair and a soft voice. He blushes easily. He wears a crisp, white shirt and a tie every day, whereas our dads do that only on Sundays. I am pretty sure that I am not the only girl who has a crush on him.
It’s almost lunch time, so no one is really listening as Mr. Pratt reads from the social studies textbook. The younger kids practice their times tables in the corner, and the little ones are copying the alphabet into their scribblers, over and over again.
As teachers before him had, Mr. Pratt mostly ignores the “big boys in the back of the room.” In rural Ontario, boys have to work on the farm in the spring for planting and in the fall for harvesting. Their parents want them out of the house in the winter, and so they plonk themselves down in the back row of the nearest one-room school. At P.S. 21, we are stuck with the Stickly brothers, three of them. They aren’t here to learn. Everyone knows that. Even the enthusiastic Mr. Pratt gave up talking to them after a couple of weeks.
The notorious Stickly family is known all over the county. Their kids are very nearly feral. The oldest of these is Billy Stickly. The bigger boys are supposed to bring the firewood in from the shed out back and keep the fire going in the stove. It has been snowing for days and the schoolroom is cold. But Billy totally ignores the shortage of firewood and leans his head against the back wall and sleeps for most of the day. At this point it is unclear how old Billy is. For that matter, it is unclear what grade he’s in. I don’t think anyone cares as long as he’s quiet.
I am in Grade 7 in 1956, but I can easily be mistaken for one of the little kids. In these eight-grades-in-one-room schools, I always sit in the front row near the teacher’s desk. It is more for protection than for any other reason. I stay nearby at recess to avoid the bullies on the playground. Of course, I want to be near Mr. Pratt as well. I feel safe with Mr. Pratt. Mr. Pratt is our hero, our very own Gary Cooper, like the sheriff in High Noon! The movie is our favourite. We girls all fancy ourselves as the incredibly beautiful Grace Kelly. Each of us thinks that, after school today, we will put on our bonnets, climb into the buggy, and ride off into the sunset with Mr. Pratt.
Unfortunately, Billy is awake. He and his brothers are squabbling and cursing about something, or more likely, nothing. Finally, Mr. Pratt lets his frustration with the noise coming from the back boil over, and he lowers the book and yells, “Billy, shut up!” It doesn’t work. He slams the book down on his desk. The sound makes us all jump. From the bottom drawer, he retrieves the leather strap that all the country schools are equipped with. The strap is made from two strips of harness leather glued together back to back. It makes a terrifying weapon—one inch thick, four inches wide, and about fifteen inches long. The loud whooshing noise that it makes as it is swung through the air is usually enough to bring order to the room. Not today. The teacher slams it down on his desk. We all stop what we were doing and turn towards the back of the room. Billy is paying attention now. We all are. It is High Noon and every kid in the room is on High Alert.
I hold my breath. My heart’s pounding so loud that I think everyone can hear it. I try to not wet my pants. We are all watching with anticipation as if Mr. Pratt is the sheriff and Billy, and his brothers, are all the bad guys rolled into one…Billy the Kids! Our “hero” arrives at the back of the room with the strap dangling by his side. The wooden, two-piece desk bolted to the floor is not made to fit Billy, and with much scraping and banging and moaning and groaning, he begins to untangle himself from it. After what seems like several minutes he is standing. To my left, a little girl starts to whimper. Billy is bigger, taller, and obviously stronger than our heroic teacher. He looks down at Mr. Pratt and raises his closed fist. Mr. Pratt’s face turns scarlet. The silence grows deeper, and the sunlight is gone from the room. The only sound is the little girl, crying now. I hold my breath. And I try not to wet my pants. A dog barks in the distance.
Our beloved teacher stares up at Billy. Seconds, minutes crawl past. Billy turns and grins at his brothers. Bobby and Jack pound their desks in glee. Another dog barks in the distance.
Clearly shaken by the situation that he finds himself in, our hero looks away and slowly walks back to the front of the room. He stands very still for a few minutes. Mr. Pratt returns the strap to the desk drawer. Billy Stickly folds himself back into the child’s desk and his head falls against the wall in his usual resting pose. The dust settles. All of us begin to breathe again. The little ones return to copying the alphabet; the younger ones do their times tables. The dogs are quiet. The snow piles up against the windows.
In a voice shaking only a little, Mr. Pratt resumes reading the social studies book where he had left off. We are all shaken. With broken hearts, we turn our faces to our books. No one feels like riding off into the sunset today.
