School Days in Crockett's Bluff: Early 1930s

[A second selection of excerpts from David B. Prange's  Crockett's Bluff As I Remember It.]

"There also was a two-room school that taught grades one through eight.  Kindergarten was unheard of in those days, at least in and around Crockett's Bluff.  There was a large wood framed grain storage building which was owned by the Prange brothers, a small wood framed church building which served the Lutheran Denomination, a blacksmith shop owned and operated by Mr. Schwab, a cemetery, and a large steam powered relift which was owned by August Prange Sr.  This relift lifted water from the [White] river to irrigate the rice fields of the White River Prairie.  There were approximately forty permanent dwellings.  Estimating the number of homes is made difficult because of the looseness of the village boundaries.  There were an additional four or five homes floating on the river.  An elevated water storage tank was prominent within the village.

I have fond memories of that tank.  It was supported by a steel framework about one hundred feet above grade.  It served only for water storage but was a major landmark for travelers because it could be seen for miles around, projecting above the surrounding trees.

 . . . . As I mentioned earlier, the schoolhouse was comprised of two rooms.  The one room, which was referred to as the "lower room" housed grade one through four  The other room, referred to as the "upper room" housed grades five through eight.  A school day was from nine o'clock until four.  We were given fifteen-minuted recesses, one during the morning hours and one during the afternoon.  Our lunch period was for one hour.

During the winter months, our school was heated, utilizing a wood burning stove, one in each room.  The stove wood was from a huge pile located near and west of the building.  I thought then that this wood must have appeared by magic.  I never once witnessed anyone hauling it there.  Even now, I wonder who cut and delivered it.  It had to have been no small task.  Our drinking water was from a hand-powered pump.

. . . . I enjoyed my school days.  I looked forward with joyful anticipation to the ending of summer break --  well, more or less.

The advantage we had over the way teaching is accomplished today was that all of us students, in a literal sense, attended all of the classes of all the grades within the room.  How this occurred was that each class was conducted in the open room in the presence of all the other grades.  A long bench was situated in front of the teacher's desk.  When it came time for a specific class, the teacher would call forth the children of that class to sit on the bench.  The rest of the grades could watch and hear as the lesson proceeded thereby, we actually attended all the classes.  I do believe that this phenomenon was the cause for the children of Crockett's Bluff being known for their brilliance.  I think that is what they were known for.

. . . . As I look back, way back, to my days at St. Charles High, it was primitive in relation to other contemporary high schools.  Our school may have been small and backwoods, but, make no mistake, I would have have had it any other way.  Yes, we had no running water, necessitating an outdoor privy, and our only heat was from a wood-burning stove.  We may have been short on funding, but as I learned later, we matched other schools in academics.   In fact, upon entering Alexander Hamilton High School in Los Angeles, California to finish the last half of my senior year, in 1944,  I was so far ahead of my fellow students, academically, that the authorities found it difficult to place me.  In my homeroom, I was referred to as the brainchild.  Not because I was so brilliant, but that I had already had it all. Thanks to St. Charles High.

The school building . . . is gone forever, but my memories of those wonderful days will live until I am no longer here.

A Canal "Baptising": A Summer Ritual

 

In his memoir Crocketts Bluff As I Remember It David Prange recalls his experiences as a youthful witness of Negro baptisms that usually took place at Voss Lake, about a mile or so west of the Bluff. Unlike the baptisms he recalls at his family's Bethlehem Lutheran Church located slightly north of his family's store at the entrance to the lane leading up to the Woodiel home site, the ceremonies at the lake were carried out not ritualistically within a church itself but outdoors in natural water deep enough for total submersion -- just like that of Jesus by John the Baptist, according to their reading of the scriptures. And so it was with the local -- all white -- Baptists in the Bluff whose church was attended by my family.

Like most pictures, the one above captures a moment in time. A moment shortly before a group of people, here crudely encircled in the Prange irrigation canal in Crocketts Bluff, are to be baptised -- that is, dunked backward beneath the surface of the water by the country preacher to emerge as new members of the local Baptist Church. The ceremony marks the end of a summer "revival," a series of nightly meetings whose purpose was, along with renewing the spiritual intensity of the faithful, to bring the "lost" to salvation.

How strange are all of these terms to me today -- revival, baptism, salvation. So commonplace in my youth, but today strangely absurd. I am one of the people captured in this picture. I appear to be about fourteen. The dark-haired figure in the right foreground is "Brother" (we didn't call the minister Reverend, as I recall) Monroe Davis, and I, not quite like Athena from Zeus, appear to be rising out of his head. My memory of this occasion remains vague and faint, but I clearly recognize in addition to Brother Davis several personalities significant to me at the time: Russell Marrs, Earl Gammon, and (I believe) Glenn Widener -- all people whom I admired and respected and for whom I worked either with or for over those years. I think I learned more from Russell Marrs than from any adult in my youth other than perhaps Charles Downs, the Principal of St. Charles High School during my years there.

In his "remembrance" David includes his recollection of joining others in attempting to disrupt the ceremony of the Negro baptism as a belated confession, confident that God has forgiven him for his youthful indiscretions.

All the witnesses along the bank of the canal pictured here, apparently almost directly across the road from Schwab's Store, appear to be most orderly and respectful, even curious. When I look at them I try to recall not just what I might have been feeling and thinking at the time but what it all might have meant to me. What I glean, however, is more imagination and fantasy than recollection.

It occurs to me, however, that it was not far down the canal near a noteworthy sycamore tree from whose limbs local swimmers loved to dive, that some years earlier I had learned to swim after having been tossed into the canal by my older brothers. When I arose frantically to the surface that afternoon I did what I had to do -- frantically "dog-paddle" to the shallow water.

Rites of passage. Essential and unavoidable and valued to one's last day, regardless. Perhaps in ritual captured on this Sunday afternoon I was once again doing what I felt I had to do.