Cornwall School
Our week days started at 8 am when the alarm clock went off. Hurriedly we would get into our school clothes that were so neatly laid out the night before. If it wasn't for the neighbourhood bullies, both girls and boys, the walk to school was serene and short. Most days I would meet my friend at the bottom of the street so that we could walk the last few blocks together. It wasn't unheard of to get an ice ball (snowball dipped in water to make it harder) in the head during winter months.
Cornwall school stood at the corner of Algoma Street and Cornwall Avenue. It had three stories with the gym in the basement along with the bathrooms and a training class for young men. My grade four class was on the second floor. I had already gone through Kindergarten to grade two on the first floor. I believe there was a home economics class on the first floor too. I was in awe that at some point they may teach me how to cook in the kitchen. What a great idea it was. There were no microwaves for quick heat up nor were there fast food places other than A&W which was a car ride away. By the time we were old enough for the class, it had been phased out.
My grade one teacher was an elderly woman who wore a long, brown genuine fur coat in the winter time. It used to be such a treat when we would run up to her and ask her to hug us so we could feel that fur on our faces. So much has changed so far as teachers showing affection for students. This was the year I first heard about head lice. I had no idea what it even was, but I remember her telling us in all seriousness not to use anyone else's comb in the bathroom. For all her loving ways, she was a disciplinarian. Each morning after we stood and sang God Save the Queen and had morning prayer; she would walk with ruler in hand up and down each row of students, who automatically showed the top and palm of both hands for her inspection. It was not uncommon for her to rap students on the knuckles when they showed up with dirty hands and fingernails. The children were sent out of the class to wash up and return with what they hoped were adequately clean hands. Behind the teacher's desk where the blackboard was mounted was the cloakroom. It was where we hung our coats on little hooks and took our boots off and changed into our indoor slippers. On most days it also served as the detention room. Failure to abide by the teacher's rules meant a stint in the dreaded cloakroom.
I recall the classroom very well. The floors were of hardwood, to the south were tall paned windows with blinds that could be pulled down. It was considered a special honour to be asked by the teacher to pull the blinds down when the sun was bright and hot or when we were going to watch a movie or slides. Below the windows were old radiators. All the children knew not to touch them because it would burn mightily. One day I was just sitting there in the class and for some odd reason the teacher thought I looked cold. She asked me if I would like to stand by the heat and warm up. I said okay without really needing the heat. In those days it seemed either the winters were colder or parents dressed children in many layers for fear they would suffer frostbite on the way to school or at recess. I for one had two pair of wool stockings and long wool underwear under my skirt (slacks were not allowed on girls in those days). It wasn't long before I was ready to pass out, but didn't know how to speak up and say I was on the verge of heat stroke. Language may have been a factor as over half of my class, like myself, were new immigrants. I often would shake my head yay or nay and sometimes I lucked out and got it right while other times I ended up in situations such as above.
We had reading circle every morning. This meant we had to read a short passage from the class book. I remember the Superintendent, of the schools, coming in to listen to us and when he realized I could not pronounce 'th' he took me on his knee and tried to teach me. He would say brother, mother, father over and over and I would repeat them. For the life of me, my tongue would not go 'th'; instead it went 't'. Brother became brotter, father became fotter and mother became motter. It's a giggle now, but back then being singled out was not what any one of us wanted.
One year a member of the British Royalty, whom I thought was Queen Elizabeth(?), came to town and was to take a tour up High Street in an open vehicle. All the school children had to make tiny Union Jack flags attached to a stick made from rolled up paper. Early we lined up along the street all the way up to Hillcrest Park. We waited and then were instructed to cheer when the motorcade came by. All I remember was that firstly, I was not happy to stand there for what seemed like hours, but was possibly minutes and secondly I was chagrined because I had no idea why I was doing this.
I had a wonderful grade three teacher who had no qualms about pulling your pants down in front of the class and giving you a spanking did she feel the need to correct. Other times she would call us up one at a time to stand beside her desk and she would put a friendly hand around our shoulders or back and wait patiently as we recited our memory work. My fondest memory was when she let me organize the craft paper in the back of the room because I had my homework and seat work up to date. However, I ran into a snag when it was time to learn how to write with a fountain pen. It wasn't an 'original' fountain pen, but more a cartridge pen. What it meant was that an ink cartridge was snapped on once the pen was taken into two pieces and then the top was screwed back on. Being old school, she figured I would have to learn to write with my right hand. I was somewhat ambidextrous, but not to the point of learning cursive with what I considered the wrong hand. Soon the principal was called in to evaluate the situation and to my amazement he urged the teacher to allow me to write with whatever hand suited me. I did and the ink did not smudge. My letters never were quite round enough to deserve an 'A', but looking back now it was a damn sight better than my writing is now. Apparently a person's writing changes with time.
In grade four, I had a very mild mannered, wonderful and kindly teacher. She was the kind of teacher you wanted to do your best for and the whole class excelled. I had never seen any anger on her face or in her manner until the day a friend of mine told her that some of the boys were bullying me on the way to school. I of course didn't think it was wise to tattle-tale. Secretly I was thankful that it was out in the open. Right in the middle of class that Monday morning she struck. There was fire in her eyes when she confronted the boys in class. She made it pretty clear that were it to happen even one more time, the strap in the principal's office, was the next step. My admiration for her grew in leaps and bounds and I swore I would one day be like her. She became my role model. Happily not a single soul bothered me from that day forward.
Grade five was a year I remembered for most of the wrong reasons. The teacher was elderly and had her own quirks, but I found her to be fair yet a task master. But what I remembered the most from grade five was the relentless misbehaviour by many of the boys. They seemed to have no qualms about being sent to the office for various infractions. The teacher had a policy where unfinished homework, shoddy class work, gum chewing, talking, carelessly leaving books under your chair plus a multitude of other wrong-doings brought a stern look and a raised finger. Pointing towards the side blackboard, she would repeat the phrase, 'name on the board'. One particular incident I recall well is when one of the boys was caught chewing gum. With all seriousness, the teacher announced, "name in the basket and gum on the board". To the amusement of the whole class, the boy in question, stuck his gum on the board and pretended to write his name in the waste basket by the front door. It was all we could do not to fall out of our seats laughing, but that soon changed when the teacher grabbed the boy by the ear and escorted him to the office. I can still hear the ring of the strap coming down on his hands, his yelps and eventually a red faced, not too happy young man walking back to class with not much to say. The rest of the day was pretty subdued and devoid of any antics.
Cornwall school, like many other old buildings in town, is gone for good. It was up for 81 years which could be considered a lifetime. It was built in 1907 with an addition built in 1914. The building closed in June 1988 and was eventually torn down after it was used by Lakehead University for a period. It like many buildings in Thunder Bay, served its purpose and then quietly disappeared. Many residents will not even know that it once stood there. Upon looking through the historical photos on this website there is one photo under Ann Kajander's photos that shows Cornwall School in the early days. The lot it was built on has returned full circle and more with new buildings now occupying the space.