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FIDDLE CREEK SCHOOL
Those who have attended one-room schools in rural settings have rich memories. Should it be from 1915-1920, they will have tales to tell their grandchildren. One of the colorful country schools in this area was near the top of Wallace Canyon in Douglas County. About five miles from Grand Coulee it was off to the north of Highway 174. No traces remain today, but many memories. The oldest school in the area, Douglas County records tell us it was formed October 1890 and discontinued 1931.
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Douglas County had many rural schools. Fiddle Creek was unique, a lusty reminder of the old west. Few modern touches had reached this isolated canyon, mostly due to poor roads. It drew pupils from a wide area. In 1917 school funds were so low that there was a term of only a few months a year. there were 21 boys and girls enrolled at one time in 1917. Due to distance to drive horses and general disregard for education, attendance records were poor. it wasn't easy to start kids early in the morning with lunch pails for noon time.
Sheltered by canyon hills, well-lighted and equipped, the building held a happy group of children, well behaved and respectful. They learned, not for love of knowledge nor despising ignorance, but just because they were sent. Text books had been used over and over, inscribed with many names. There was no library, but in the attic were piles of old magazines, some similar to Newsweek and Time. They were a bonanza for older students. The playground had jolly games and inside, the little pump organ filled the room with lusty singing.
The teacher boarded with George and Elsie Sanford. The home is presently the modernized home of Franklin Sanford, Jr. It was a pleasant walk up the hill every morning. One noisy little chipmunk living under a boulder challenged my right to be there, but he was won over with scraps of food. Tall poplars made shade, spring water was pure. A few pear and apple trees planted by Adairs kept us in fresh fruit. If you've never eaten pears baked just as are apples, you have a treat coming. There were home-grown vegetables and fried chicken as good as Colonel Sanders. For evening entertainment, a phonograph played Hawaiian records then just reaching popularity. Little did we dream of someday listening to those haunting melodies "live" with the lapping waves of the Pacific keeping time.
A school director was Mrs. Fred Rice (Susie, later a Grand Coulee resident). She came as a teacher from Indiana, married a local farmer and had a small daughter named Nettie. The homestead is now the home of Mrs. Fred Rice, Jr. (Vera) and my colleague on The Star staff, Darlene Dittmer, granddaughter of Susie, the third generation of Rices now live near there.
When the new teacher was notified that she was expected to raise funds for the Red Cross, Susie suggested a school house dance. A local bachelor, Paul Rupenow, went ahead with plans. For years Fiddle Creek had been noted for dances. The musical, pleasure-loving neighborhood responded. People pressed and polished their best apparel. The social event of the year was launched.
Soon after a local young man rapped at the schoolhouse door to make a date with the new teacher. Pupils stared and giggled; teacher blushed and accepted.
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The big night drew people far and near, a good crowd and no fights. Teacher training at Cheney Normal in 1917 had no public speaking courses, no toastmaster group gave us experience. Before the hat was passed, teacher made the appeal. many homes had soldiers in camps and some were in France. "Goodbye Broadway, Hello France" was a popular song. Silver clinked merrily into the hat, mostly "two-bits up to six-bits". The paper dollar had not made its introduction. We considered the war necessary but far away and money was scarce. People gave what they could spare.
The crowd turned to two-step, three-step, waltzes and quadrilles. We now call them the American term, "square dances". Later that year a masquerade dance repeated the fun. It relieved winter monotony of snow cover and cold.
George Sanford was a man who loved horses. While en route to Pendleton Roundup via train from Spokane, he met a small bright-eyed young lady named Elsie Roseberry. She also loved horses. That train trip was the beginning of romance. They were married before his older brother, Frank. Unlike somber Frank, George loved a joke.
We planned costumes for the masked dance. Elsie had embroidered a western shirt for George with red roses like present-day elaborate styles. I borrowed it and George's hat and boots. They made a passable cowgirl. George wore my high-topped laced shoes. There was a leather shortage in war times so tops were fawn-colored cloth. It gave the impression of spats, very smart. With Elsie's dress and hat, George made a charming rather buxom girl. His only problem was remembering not to lead. Men crowded around to date this strange, new girl. Asking for a dance then was "May I?", instead of a grab as the boys do today. Music was gay, so were the dancers.
At suppertime, there were gasps of surprise as they unmasked. Lunch was anticipated hungrily. some had ridden many miles on horseback. There were few autos in this part of the country. Coffee was hot and good in those tin cups. Pickles and sandwiches were served since sugar shortage eliminated cakes. After Home Sweet Home waltz, sleeping children were packed out into hacks for the homeward drive. Babysitters were unheard of.
George and Elsie had a medley of visitors. George's mother was a great great grandmother to young Sanfords who are growing up around the neighborhood today. She was a typical pioneer mother. She raised four boys and four girls and taught them all the joy in work. She was a widow who kept her family together. Fred Sitts, another early timer, loved to dance. When waltzing, he counted aloud, "One, two, three; one, two, three". If he missed a step, he exclaimed apologetically, "Oops". "Lige" Roberts, apparently named for the Biblical Elijah, was the son of a well-known stage driver, Alex Roberts. Before World War I ended, he died from the rampaging Flue epidemic, out in the Almira Hotel, so Jess Lewis remembers.
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Janey Price, who was Archey Price's aunt, often rode horseback, carrying outgoing mail to the row of mailboxes at the turn of the stage road. There is still a Sanford mailbox in that spot. Janey had a low, musical voice with a southern drawl. The old Price father had sold his original property on Washington Flats in 1908 and moved to the West Side. His daughters were Janey and Gladys; his two boys, Joe and Hobart. All had traveled west from southern United States in early 1900. The family was well respected. There was no race prejudice.
School children of one family took special attention. Readin', writin' and 'rithmetic were hard to master. Eatin' was far more important. Tall fourteen-year old girls could read with difficulty, but readily told how to make cucumber pickles and the intricate method of bread-making. When we discussed sugar and flour shortage, which were being sent to Europe, the girls knew all substitutes.
The older girl, Sadie, later cooked for a threshing crew near Almira and married a prosperous bachelor rancher. Poor husky Roy was twelve years old and in the third grade. He had a speech impediment and was a total loss at reading. But he could count. From counting sheep, he could drone along to 29. Then "Serty", an abrupt end. That was it. Period. I heard he later made a good workman at the Omak Sawmill. A family related to them had stutterers. I doubt if those young 'uns ever counted to "Serty". Eventually the whole family was moved to Custodial School in Medical Lake, where special assistance was given them.
Charlie Whited drove a buckboard from Wilson Butte, bringing his brother Byron and a dear littl brown-eyed sister, Alice. Those big boys were an addition, carrying water from the well; starting a wood fire each day; pushing the County Superintendent's little Ford up the steep hill. There was never a discipline problem in this country school.
On the subject of weekly baths, one dwelt lightly. In some homes water was carried by bucket a long way. It was heated in kettles on a wood stove. In winter snow was melted to fill a galvanized washtub. Luckily, all families made every effort to send clean kids to school. The vernacular of some was distinctive. One mother told me, "These people is so 'iggernut' you needen look to change 'um". I doubt if she ever changed, but she got her four children moved to the city. One son worked at construction on Grand Coulee Dam awhile. The ranch they left made a comfortable living for a later resident.
One garrulous school girl, beginning the romantic teens proudly confided to me, "My mama had five proposals, but only accepted two". She adroitly managed her two half-brothers. i remember only the names Lona and Bernard. Her mother's name was Hattie.
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Two pleasant brothers were cooperative and good readers. Discussing military training with one when he announced that his dad had had it. Soldiers had not yet returned from World War I, so I pondered that.
Some time later, when I asked a neighbor, he bust out laughing, "Sure", he said, "it was in the State Penitentiary. He did two years for cattle rustling". I don't believe those boys were responsible for removing loose boards near the rear of the schoolhouse. No vandalism, but a few things were missing, including my new fountain pen. It was during Grand Coulee Dam construction that someone stole the solid oak teacher's desk from the old building. He made it into a coffee table and boasted about it.
there were good people, as in most communities. An elderly man donated a few Bibles and started Sunday School. When asked where to find a certain famous passage, he glibly answered, "I'll be damned if I know".
Fiddle Creek never had the experience Columbia View School down in the Coulee did. Two itinerant preachers full of fire and fervor told their listeners of idolatry and vanity in wearing jewelry. "Give up your rings, your watches, your baubles' they belong to the Devil". Swayed by their eloquence, two girls handed over what they were wearing. The preachers were boarding at Purtee's homestead. Next morning the girls came, wanting their jewelry back. Reluctantly, they were returned. Maybe because Father had a stern eye for the preachers. He had paid hard-earned cash for his daughters' pride and joy, mail-order jewelry. The pseudo-preachers left the country, after another church meeting broke up in a fist fight between two neighbors. Argument was: Should rowdy drinking and dancing be permitted in the schoolhouse if dishonest preachers were barred! Reader, make your own decision. In those days earning a living was more necessary than spiritual nourishment. It was too many miles to drive for religious education. Parents taught the basics of honesty, honor and respect, just as their parents had taught them.
Wishing to go home one Friday after school, George offered me his colt to ride. "She's as gentle as a kitten". A pretty brown filly, she looked the perfect horse. When I came out in my riding skirt, George looked skeptical. "She's never had a skirt on her, but first I'll try her out. In 1917, we didn't wear men's garb. A divided skirt of khaki was modestly full. When not riding, a flap buttoned over so it appeared a lady's skirt. Some years ago the name "culotte" came out, but it was never popular. George put on the skirt, gave a few "Yippie-eye-yippis". No objection. I put on the skirt and started the ten mile ride to my Coulee home. Darkness came on, but I had no fear. The scare of rabid coyotes had been going around the country, but I knew that any good horse can outrun a coyote. I had seen my father do it.
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It was the black interior of my father's big barn that the pony refused. She set four hooves down and no amount of persuasion would coax her in. I realized that she had never been in a barn and wasn't about to. Slipping off her saddle and bridle, I returned her to the willow pole corral with an armful of hay. they I hurried in toward mother's kitchen. I knew there would be a kettle of beans simmering and smelling like heaven to a hungry rider. The little brown horse became George's favorite riding animal.
One weekend was an unusual treat. My friend, Peachey Washington, invited me to their home on the Big Bar of the Columbia River. On Saturday morning, I took the road past the mailboxes up the canyon to the north to the barb-wire gate entrance to Washington Flats. This walk was no hardship to one who averaged eight miles every week, walking to school. I scuffed along in deep dust, enjoying every minute. our families visited and the road was familiar. Young people always rode horseback. converting rocky hills and a sand flat into a southern plantation was no easy job. Moving lumber for buildings must have been tortuous down those hills. The Washington home was small, but very comfortable. There was a fireplace of native stone and many cupboards to store the piles of dishes, treasures of past years. They set a hospitable table.
Since Peachy was filing on homestead land, she slept in a cottage nearby. It had twin beds with quaint counterpanes. The huge dressers with marble tops were of solid eastern wood, with many small drawers, some secret. It was an antique hunter's Paradise.
Sunday morning the family gathered for worship. A chapter was read from the bible, followed by prayer. Simple, sincere and reverent. Far from amusements and company, Peachy and Jim Washington, both unmarried, had cared for an invalid sister until her death. Their father died there also. Our Senator, Nat, spent his boyhood summers there. In 1917, he was three years old, living with his parents in Ephrata. The tragic story of drownings in the Columbia River may be covered in some future issue.
Teaching in Fiddle Creek School was a valuable experience. The plight of remote areas was brought to me. Combining small district schools brought loss of personality. Ingenuity and resourcefulness are lost in large, crowded schools. If one craves knowledge, it is available anywhere. Fiddle Creek is but a memory of good times and good friends. It represented our American beginning, our rich western heritage.
Written for The Star
By Dayma Lange Evans
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