I first attended a small, one-room school which included K-6. Then I had to move to the larger school (7-11) about two and a half miles away. I walked this nearly three times each day until I finished my Grade 11. Thus, the beginning of my real story.

We had finished the school year, had written our finals, and my pals and I were at the old swimming hold called the Gulf. I will never forget the flurry when someone called out that the marks were out. I knew my mother was waiting patiently for me to get my marks to see if I had passed, but I can’t say I was too torn up about getting them! Anyway, some of us jumped out of the water, ran into the woods, changed into dry clothes and made our way up to the principal’s house, that’s where the marks came.

With great fear and trembling, I knocked on his door and waited for the look on his face. He proceeded with a spiel about how I passed with a matriculation and with indescribable jubilation, I flew towards home, leaving him alone with the rest of his oratory. When I arrived home, my mother was putting clothes on the outdoor clothesline. When I told her I had passed my Grade 11, she grabbed me by the neck with a mother’s strong arms and hugged me until it hurt. She left the wet clothes in a pile and we went into the house. She sat me down and informed me that she had saved $150 for me to go to Summer School. Now, I don’t know how she saved all that money, since there were thirteen of us in the family to provide for. But like a mother, she scrimped and saved and decided that I would be the one to go teaching.

I must confess that my mind never, ever entertained the thought of being a teacher. But I couldn’t disappoint her. So when Summer School began, my buddy and I got a boarding house of Franklin Avenue in St. John’s and began our new experience. I don’t know exactly what Summer School was supposed to teach us, but it went nowhere near preparing me for what lay ahead. Oh yes, I learned how to mark the register, sell books, and make sure it was all sent correctly back to the Department of Education.

It was the last day of Summer School and the prof was giving us the last bit of advice. He picked up a huge pile of papers and began to distribute one to each student. When I looked at mine, I saw that it was a huge list of all the schools in Newfoundland. We were required to peruse it and choose the school where we wanted to begin our teaching career. Well, I thumbed through the four of five long pages and soon realized that I had never travelled farther than St. John’s in my life (about twice up to that point) and most of the places were basically foreign to me. Now, I heard my father talk of many places he went in his years as a super on the railway, and I wondered what school would be nearest to it. Since I didn’t know, the prof let me take the sheet home so I could converse with my dad about it. He also warned me that if I chose one now today it would be reserved for me. Otherwise, I was on my own to take my chances.

Well, I came home and told about my plight. My mother wasn’t very long finding a school for me! “Your father will be stationed in Clarenville at that time,” she said, “and when you get off the train he can be there to look after you!” That sounded simple and straightforward enough but she wasn’t the one getting on the train and going to this strange place! This strange place, by the way, was called Elliott’s Cove, Random Island.

I left home in a taxi one dark and dreary day with much tearful fanfare (fear). I got on the train in Whitbourne proceeded to Clarenville. When I got off the train in Clarenville, my father was nowhere to be seen. The crew had moved to another siding out in Port Blandford. Fear and panic quickly set in as I heard a gentleman loudly call my name. I was my boarding-house master who had come to pick me up. He threw my baggage into the truck and we proceeded through a dark and lonely road to Elliott’s Cove. I soon made a terrifying discovery: There was no electricity in this little rural place. This was, classified by me, earthshattering! I grew up with electricity for all my seventeen years and knew absolutely nothing about lamps. A barrage of questions filled my mind: house lighting? School lighting? Heating?? Surely a young lad of seventeen leaving home for the first time with only a Grade 11 education and the awesome responsibility to wholly educate 27 students from K-8 was enough of a nightmare experience!

After a twenty minute drive we turned into a driveway with a huge two-storey house and a small shed on the opposite side. We entered the home and I met my new boarding mistress and he two teenage children. We all sat around the kitchen table and shared the necessary information about each other. Then, out of the blue, Mr. Smith said to me, “You looks like a fine, strong lad. I think I got something that can make all of our lives more comfortable.”  Then he took me out to the shed and introduced me to a power-plant. Apparently he had had it for a little while and neither he nor his son could crank it over. “Give her a try, lad,” he said. I took the crank, engaged it and turned with all my strength. The old plant started to put, put, put and turn faster. Suddenly, Mr. Smith should to run out as fast as possible. We did that, and not too soon. A tremendous bang came from inside the shed. When we considered it safe, we went in a found that the crank handle had slipped off and stuck into the shed wall. Mr. Smith said, “My son, I forgot to tell you to haul off the handle when you felt her starting to go.” And as we walked back into the house he said, “Looks like you got a year’s work ahead of you.”

As I settled into my new home, I began to investigate my real reason for being there. A trip to the school the next day was a real eye-opener – one room, lamps on the walls, and a potbelly stove. On further investigation I found that each family takes a turn lighting the stove and supplying wood for their respective period of time.

My first day at school was a real experience. I had no Grade 2 class because the little girl who was to occupy the whole grade by herself had moved to Clarenville. The books from the Department of Education had already been landed in school and opened and the sight of all these different types of books was real intimidating for a young first-year teacher

I met the children, introduced myself, and let them know right away who was boss in this school. After a couple of days I felt guilty about the discipline law I had laid down on the first day. Needless to say, I soon reversed my hard-nosed beginning and made friends with the most beautiful children I have ever met. Throughout the year I met all the wonderful parents of these children, and they treated this lowly little teenager with immeasurable respect. Upon meeting each parent individually, I found a multiplicity of professions. One gentleman told me he was the barber of the community and I could have a complimentary haircut at my convenience. Another had a taxi business and offered me free transportation to Clarenville whenever I had a need to go.

I appeared that the teacher in a community at that particular time was s stalwart figure. I was hired to teach in a Protestant school (United Church) and was expected to be a regular church goer. Elliott’s Cove was part of a charge that included a number of other individual churches. There was no ordained clergy but a lay-person was made responsible for the charge.  Needless to say, on stormy winter days this person couldn’t get to all the churches on his charge. I remember one particular Sunday we were all waiting, but when the time came for church to begin, the clergy hadn’t arrived. The old sexton gentleman of the church came up and tapped me on the shoulder. “Sonny,” he said, “looks like you’re on for this morning.”  Thus began another chapter in my story.

My year in Elliott’s Cove was indeed very rewarding. By the time the year had ended, we had written and performed plays, had movies shown in school and plans were finalized for a new school to replace the old one. I made a trip back there some years later and found they had built a beautiful new school.

Harold Clarke
Cupids, NL