Emma Miller woke at four AM, though school started at eight thirty. Lay in darkness thinking: twenty-three children aged six to fourteen, one room, one blackboard, one her.
Yesterday Mom said: 'You'll manage. I managed.' Mom had taught five years, until marriage. That was all Emma knew about pedagogy.
Morning
School — white wooden building, one room, six windows, stove in the corner. Emma arrived at seven: lit the fire (September, but morning cold), arranged textbooks, wrote the schedule on the board. Arithmetic. Reading. German. English. Geography. Lunch. Arithmetic. Reading. Home.
First student — Samuel Troyer, six, silent, in a new shirt — arrived at seven thirty. Stood at the door. Emma said: 'Good morning, Samuel.' He nodded. Sat at the front desk. Pulled out his slate. Hands on knees. Waited.
By eight — all twenty-three. Oldest — David Yoder, fourteen, final year. A head taller than Emma. Sat at the back desk. Crossed his arms. Watched.
First Lesson
'We'll begin with prayer,' Emma said. Her voice didn't shake (she was surprised). Twenty-three heads bowed. Silence. Prayer. Then a hymn. Standing, off-key, loud, joyful.
'First and second grade — open your primer, page twelve. Third and fourth — arithmetic, problems on page forty. Fifth through eighth — read the chapter on the Appalachians, then tell us about it.'
And it worked. Not immediately, not perfectly. Samuel didn't understand the assignment. Mary Schrock cried (missing Mom). David Yoder yawned ostentatiously. But by lunch Emma understood: she could do this. Not because she knew how. But because twenty-three children wanted her to.