The One-Room School

At the historical park in Man*tee County is a one-room school house which was in Bunker Hill. The interior today has been replicated to show what it was like in the early days. If you enlarge this photo and read about it, it mentions B. D. Gull*tt who was a teacher and then later superintendent of schools here in our county. We have a new elementary school here in our county which has been named for him. I have a very good friend here in Bradenton whose husband is the grandson of this gentleman. His brothers and sisters will all be coming to Bradenton for the dedication of this new school.

Did you ever go to a one-room school? When I taught in Haiti, our school had two rooms, one for the lower elementary classes and then one for the upper and junior high classes. I was able to get a little bit of the feel of a one-room classroom since I had grades seven, eight, and nine together in one room. This classroom also reminds me a bit of "Little House on the Pra*rie."

Back in those days, you wouldn't want to sit in the corner. Someone would surely tell your parents, and then you'd be punished again when you got home. It isn't like that today, though, is it.

Our county still has a one-room school. It is out in the county, and the residents of the area keep fighting to keep it. The county, for economic reasons, would like to close it and bring those children in to the larger schools, but so far they have not prevailed. Only time will tell.

If you go here, there is a poem about a one-room schoolhouse.

The 1887 Church

Here are some more photos from the church in the historical park. The sign, if you will click on it, you can read more about the church and the meaning of the window that appears to be the star of David.

Nothing can alter the character of God. In the course of a human life, tastes and outlook and temper may change radically: a kind, equable man may turn bitter and crotchety: a man of good-will may grow cynical and callous. But nothing of this sort happens to the Creator. He never becomes less truthful, or merciful, or just, or good, than He used to be. --J.I. Packer

[God] is not proud...He will have us even though we have shown that we prefer everything else to Him. --CS Lewis

As long as you are proud you cannot know God. A proud man is always looking down on things and people; and, of course, as long as you are looking down, you cannot see something that is above you. --C. S. Lewis

I gave in, and admitted that God was God. --C. S. Lewis

The Little Church

Located in the historical park is the old Manatee Meth*dist Church. When a new church was built, this one was moved to its present location in the park. Today, the church is open for visitors and may be used for weddings. As I entered the church, I thought of the pioneering families who came to Manatee County and settled and came here for worship. They had weddings, funerals, baptisms...the church was the center of family life. The same holds true for many of us today. I am so thankful for my church family who cares for me and my children. We rejoice with each other in our joys; we cry with each other in our sorrow; we support each other through good and bad.

As I entered the church, the pews were bare, but I thought of the stories that were probably shared there among the ladies, the children who were seated with their parents, no nursery to send their children to, no children's church to entertain. They learned to sit respectfully and learned to worship alongside their parents. I think we've lost something somewhere along the line.

The Little Church


The little church of Long Ago, where as a boy I sat
With mother in the family pew and fumbled with my hat--
How I would like to see it now the way I saw it then,
The straight-backed pews, the pulpit high, the women and the men
Dressed stiffly. in their Sunday clothes and solemnly devout,
Who closed their eyes when prayers were said and never looked about--
That little church of Long Ago, it wasn't grand to see,
But even as a little boy it meant a lot to me.

The choir loft where father sang comes back to me again;
I hear his tenor voice once more the way I heard it when
The deacons used to pass the plate, and once again I see
The people fumbling for their coins, as glad as they could be
To drop their quarters on the plate, and I'm a boy once more
With my two pennies in my fist that mother gave before
We left the house, and once again I'm reaching out to try
To drop them on the plate before the deacon passes by.

It seems to me I'm sitting in that high-backed pew, the while
The minister is preaching in that good old-fashioned style;
And though I couldn't understand it all somehow I know
The Bible was the text book in that church of Long Ago;
He didn't preach on politics, but used the word of God,
And even now I seem to see the people gravely nod,
As though agreeing thoroughly with all he had to say,
And then I see them thanking him before they go away.

The little church of Long Ago was not a structure huge,
It had no hired singers or no other subterfuge
To get the people to attend, 'twas just a simple place
Where every Sunday we were told about God's saving grace;
No men of wealth were gathered there to help it with a gift;
The only worldly thing it had--a mortgage hard to lift.
And somehow, dreaming here to-day, I wish that I could know
The joy of once more sitting in that church of Long Ago.

Edgar Guest

Four rooms and a path

I said in an earlier post that I did not like particularly going to my grandma and grandpa's house on "vacation." As I said, my mother looked after her parents to make sure that they had what they needed, and so a couple of times a year we went in the '36 Chevrolet and later the '50 Chevy sedan.

One of the main reason I disliked going was the fact that there was no running water in the house and no indoor plumbing. Many of you know what I'm talking about. When I went to Haiti and found myself using outhouses, it at least was not a shock to my system as it was to some of the missionaries, particularly young wives, who had come from city settings.

I found the following poem, which is attributed to James Whitc*mb Riley. However, if you go to this site, you will find that his authorship has been disputed.

The Passing of the Backhouse

When memory keeps me company and moves to smile or tears,
A weather-beaten object looms through the mist of years,
Behind the house and barn it stood, a half a mile or more
And hurrying feet a path had made, straight to its swinging door.


Its architecture was a type of simple classic art,
But in the tragedy of life it played a leading part.
And oft the passing traveler drove slow and heaved a sigh,
To see the modest hired girl slip out with glances shy.


We had our posey garden that the women loved so well;
I loved it too, but better still I loved the stronger smell
That filled the evening breezes so full of homely cheer,
And told the night-o'ertaken tramp that human life was near.


On lazy August afternoons it made a little bower
Delightful, where my grandsirer sat and whiled away an hour.
For there the summer mornings, its very cares entwined,
And berry bushes reddened in the streaming soil behind.


All day fat spiders spun their webs to catch the buzzing flies
That flitted to and from the house, where Ma was baking pies;
And once a swarm of hornets bold had built their palace there,
And stung my unsuspecting Aunt -- I must not tell you where.


My father took a flaming pole -- that was a happy day --
He nearly burned the building up, but the hornets left to stay.
When summer bloom began to fade and winter to carouse,
We banked the little building with a heap of hemlock boughs.


But when the crust is on the snow and sullen skies were gray,
Inside the building was no place where one could wish to stay.
We did our duties promptly, there one purpose swayed the mind;
We tarried not, nor lingered long, on what we left behind.


The torture of the icy seat would make a Spartan sob,
For needs must scrape the flesh with a lacerating cob,
That from a frost-encrusted nail suspended from a string --
My father was a frugal man and wasted not a thing.


When Grandpa had to "go out back" and make his morning call,
We'd bundle up the dear old man with a muffler and a shawl.
I knew the hole on which he sat -- 'twas padded all around,
And once I tried to sit there -- 'twas all too wide I found,


My loins were all too little, and I jack-knifed there to stay,
They had to come and get me out, or I'd have passed away,
My father said ambition was a thing that boys should shun,
And I just used the children's hole 'til childhood days were done.


And still I marvel at the craft that cut those holes so true,
The baby's hole, and the slender hole that fitted Sister Sue,
That dear old country landmark; I tramped around a bit,
And in the lap of luxury my lot has been to sit,


But ere I die I'll eat the fruits of trees I robbed of yore,
Then seek the shanty where my name is carved upon the door.
I ween that old familiar smell will soothe my jaded soul,
I'm now a man, but none the less I'll try the children's hole.

by James Whitc*mb Riley

When my elementary school was remodeled and added onto back in 1995, the architect wanted to keep the flavor of Florida alive in his plans. Our bathrooms jutted out from adjoining classrooms, so when the building was painted, they were painted with crescent moons on the outside.

In reading about outhouses, I read that men's outhouses had stars carved in the door; the ladies' outhouses had moons. After awhile, because the men preferred the ladies' cleaner and neater houses, they finally just used the crescent.

I'm sure some of you have stories that you could tell, and some of the younger ones have never had to experience the "walk down the path."

For some fun facts about outhouses, you can go here.

Just when you think you have it hard

Inside the kitchen at the historical park are reminders of my grandparents' home as I mentioned in my last post. I remember when they didn't have running water. The food was cooked on a wood stove. I think I remember electricity in the house. There was a single light bult hanging from the middle of the room...no switches, though. I remember that my grandmother had a string from the light pull to the head of her bed so that she could turn the light out after she was in bed.

I read a post the other day that talked about the essential kitchen...the items that you needed if you had no extras. I think this table would show that somewhat. We have so many appliances and conveniences today, but we don't cook nearly as much as our grandparents did, do we.

Notice the floor boards. See the light coming through? I don't remember that at their house, but you could see between the boards in the walls.

A little ironing to be done? Is this the forerunner of a steam iron? I didn't ever see one like this. My mother kept some of the cast iron irons that you heated on top of the woodstove, but I don't remember seeing one like this before. When I lived in Haiti, I brought home a beautiful charcoal iron. The top of the iron has a container for hot coals to heat the iron. I've never did use it that way.

My grandma and grandpa had a pump a little way from the house. I always liked pumping water for them. My great-aunt had a house similar to the one in the photo below, and she had a wrap-around porch with a pump there at the porch like this one. We don't even think about it when we turn on a light, or turn on a faucet, knowing that we'll have power and water.

I love looking at these reminders of years gone by, but I'm not sure that I would have wanted to live then. A simpler life, perhaps, but not easier. When I lived in Haiti, we had a girl who cooked for us, a lady who came and did our laundry, and when I came home and told people that, some raised their eyebrows. Luxury? No, necessity. That's a topic for another day. If I ever get my slides from Haiti scanned, I'll have lots to blog about.

Come and Dine

A few weeks ago I posted some photos from the historical park here in Bradenton, and I had every intention of posting every day...well. As I walked through the park that day, I truly was walking back in time to my childhood when I used to go with my parents to visit my maternal grandparents in north Florida.

My mother was the next to the oldest of five children, and she somehow was the one who took the responsibility of seeing that her parents had their needs taken care of. Every time that my parents had vacation time, it was spent visiting grandma and grandpa. I must confess that I do not have fond memories of my grandparents, not like children do today. They seemed awfully old to me, and they really were not too interested in me, or so I thought.

Their house was similar to the one pictured here, although not nearly as nice. It was a frame house with a tin roof, a square divided into four equal rooms, a living room, a kitchen/dining room, and two bedrooms. You can guess where the bathroom was. That's right...down the path. I think that is another reason I didn't like to go there.

As I entered this house, I realized that they knew how to build houses then to catch the breezes as they came through. It was not particularly a cool day when I visited here, but as i walked into the house, the gentle breeze did keep me cool. In this particular house the bedrooms were to the right as you enter and then straight ahead is the kitchen as you can well see.

In the kitchen was the dinner table, placed as it was in my grandparents' house. On each long side of the table was a bench on which to sit. Now that was one thing that I did like. I loved to sit on the bench to eat my dinner. After we were through eating, if there were leftovers, my grandma would cover them with a sheet or a cloth to keep the flies out. We didn't worry about spoilage. I guess she figured that it would all be eaten soon...turnip greens, black-eyed peas, okra and tomatoes, and always a pot of grits. My grandma loved her grits.

Grandpa sat at the head of the table, and this photo reminds me of him. My mother called her parents "Mama and Papa." The oilcloth table cloth, the mismatched silver and dishes are so much like theirs. I remember watching grandpa eat and then rinse his mouth with his coffee. Sometimes he would "saucer and blow" it before he drank it and then swish it around in his mouth before swallowing it. He didn't have any teeth...if he did, he didn't wear them. Maybe he left them in the cup, so when he ate, his chin would just about meet his nose.

My grandparents didn't have much in this life, but they were generous with what they had and were grateful to my mother for looking after them like she did. As I was thinking about the table spread, I was reminded of an old gospel song, "Come and Dine." You can hear the tune and read the words at cyberhymnal.

The refrain goes:

“Come and dine,” the Master calleth, “Come and dine”;

You may feast at Jesus’ table all the time;

He Who fed the multitude, turned the water into wine,

To the hungry calleth now, “Come and dine.”