Through the trees, I caught sight of the church’s steeple, majestic and gloriously white, pointing out over the treetops as if suspended in midair. In the middle of autumn’s splendid offering, I reflected on my fifteen-year-old self—a girl who had left following a Christmas service within its walls, having experienced what brokenness felt like.
Inside the doll-like structure, hope had become real, rising as visibly as the spire above the unadorned chapel where I had found it so many years before.
The buggy bounced unpredictably as it rounded the downward slope of the hill. At the next bend in the road, the familiar clapboard building, sitting regally in the clearing, came into full view.
Russellville was several miles ahead, and in a matter of a few minutes, Jim would leave me there to start a new day, early in the morning, in the two-room schoolhouse with the children I loved.
Chapter 4
The morning was an invigorating one—the beginning of a new day. A furry critter, most certainly a red fox, slithered into the nearby woods as I climbed the four steps leading to the schoolhouse that sat west of downtown Russellville on Boughey Street.
The final two weeks of October and the entire month of November had whisked past in an exceptional array of intentional activity, and once again visions of changing my little corner of the world had me riding high on ambitions. My commitments were going forward, and—Lord willing—I would take on the rest of the world come May.
A rigorous teaching schedule filled my daytime hours. Preparing myself emotionally and spiritually for the mission field filled my evening hours, but with December plans fully underway, I found myself eager for tomorrow’s return trip to Millicent’s home to spend Christmas in Elkton.
Henry was due to come for me in the morning, but until then I had an agenda to meet.
“Humm-hum hum-hum . . . looking above. Filled with His goodness, lost in His love. This is my story, this is my song, praising my Savior all the day long. Hum-hum hum hum-hum, all the day long—”
Arguably, wealthier areas touted more books and better buildings and equipment. And higher pay for my college degree did elude me, but it was the experience in these two classrooms that put a song in my heart. I pushed open the door in a moment charged with confidence. Both school rooms were empty, both freezing cold. Even so, it was going to take more than seeing my frosty breath in the air and a little chill to back me down. Grabbing the bucket, I dumped chunks of coal over the existing weak glow, as many as the potbelly stove would hold.
Lesson plans that I had bundled yesterday were stacked at the corner of my desk; the black-handled school bell sat on top. Were it not for Mr. Geoffrey Hagan and his enthusiasm as school board member to have me teach in Todd County, I thought, and the timely meeting when our paths crossed, I might have stayed in Alabama.
I removed my gloves and ran my bare hand across the cold surface of the chalkboard, then picked up a piece of chalk and wrote MERRY CHRISTMAS in bold letters across the top of the board. Hugging myself like a bear that had lost her cubs, I walked briskly past the two short rows of desks into the next room and wrote the same Christmas wish on the chalkboard.
“Thank goodness I made that commitment,” I said aloud, stuffing the potbelly stove in there with coal as well.
“What commitment, Miss Maxwell?”
Startled, I turned to find one of my fifth graders. A blue scarf, worn but patched, wrapped her head, and a too-large-for-her plaid coat was tied at the waist with a cord. Having come from one of the many depression-hit households that had embraced a new level of frugality, she stood looking up at me. And existing, I thought, perhaps unwise to the world of adults, carrying on with life as close to normal as possible, with parents keeping up appearances during a very bleak period in our American history.
“To be here with you! You and the other bright students in this very school. Y’all are going to do great things one day, Elizabeth Ann.” I gave her a hug. “Your whole future is ahead of you! Do you know that?”
“Yes, Miss Maxwell. You’ve told us. So it must be true.” Her appearance was fresh faced, and my having taught her for the last four months indicated she had a mind like a sponge.
It was Elizabeth Ann and the thirteen other children—those from the four first graders and four third graders to the three sixth graders and a seventh grader to the lone eleventh grader—whose passion for learning had, in a short time period, affirmed and likewise justified my decision to return to my roots. Gaining experience and maturity for what lay ahead for me after this initial year of teaching was essential. More important, my having taught the Negro children to read and write at the tender age of fifteen—giving them an eye to the world outside Hillbound even when my love for them exceeded my expertise—had set in motion my life’s course. Not everyone who heard the inspirational speaker at Athens’ campus had responded the way I had. Not everyone had pledged two years of their future to become a missionary.
“Good morning, Miss Maxwell.” Betsy Sue Samuels laid a greeting card on my desk.
“Merry Christmas, Miss Maxwell,” Clara Ridgefield said and handed me an apple, one that looked like she’d possibly polished it on her sleeve on the way to school.
Gradually the coat hooks became overloaded, the desks filled with jabbering students. I settled the younger ones into their reading lesson and proceeded to the room where the older students were, as it appeared, keyed up with excitement for the upcoming two-week vacation. I caught a glimpse of the paper airplane Ronald Birch hurled through the air. It landed in Molly Jane Foreman’s long curls. The laugher immediately ceased as I entered.
Momentarily displeased, I decided the best approach was to set aside the airplane incident. Instead, I removed my coat, hung it on the back of my chair, and went to the blackboard, my back to the students.
“Miss Maxwell?”
I turned, chalk in hand, and came to an abrupt stop in my arithmetic quizzing. My face was set into a pruney scowl that threatened to be permanent.
“Yes, Philip?” I said, acknowledging the raised hand of one of my sixth-grade pupils.
“Your dress is not zipped.”
I took a moment to gather my wits about me. “Thank you, Phillip,” I said, putting on my coat, then slowly fastening its hooks. “Question: if my coat has seven buttons down the front, two on each sleeve, and one on each pocket, how many minutes will it take to button my coat if it takes thirty seconds per button to button all of them?”
The sixth graders looked at each other in dismay. Some began counting on their fingers. After a delay, one hand went up.
“Yes, Charles?”
The seventh grader was smiling as he stood. “Six and a half.”
“Ah-ha,” I said with a lip smack and a victorious laugh. “If my coat had buttons, your answer would be correct. It only has hooks, though. You may be seated.”
The arithmetic lesson brought cautious laughter, and curiosity had the younger children peeking at us from around the doorframe. We all joined in the gaiety, and then it was back to business.
I walked to the front of my desk and sat on its edge. “We’ll be out of school for a little over two weeks, boys and girls. That’s going to give you an opportunity to read a good book . . . and there are many, all kinds, to choose on the shelf in the other room. Consider the one you take as if it’s a Christmas gift and savor it. Then bring it back so it will be there for the next person. Alright. Now, in the few hours left, let’s get busy and wind up this school year with a bang.”
Accounting for the cheerful intermission