The Mouse House

In the fall of 1986, I was the mother of two pre-schoolers with another on the way. Christmas was coming. Money was tight. What I did have was a new Pfaff sewing machine. My father had died earlier that year and we’d received a bequeathment. I knew I wanted to use part of the money to buy a good sewing machine. I’ve never regretted that decision, and I think of Dad every time I use it.

I also owned a trunk of assorted fabrics, old clothes, and crafting materials. When I found a pattern for a little fabric doll house and its three family members—which you could make either as bunnies or mice, I decided to make our three-year-old daughter a mouse house.

This, of course, required working only while the children slept.

The first step was cutting out ALL. THE. PIECES. The walls and roof were reinforced with plastic, then padded with batting before adding fabric on both sides That’s a lot of pieces. The roof and carrying handle were made from leftover fabric I’d used to make my husband a shirt, the walls from a discarded dress. Half the roof lifted up while the front wall could be raised or lowered using zippers along each corner. Each wall included at least one window, complete with shutters and flowery window boxes on the outside, curtains on the inside. The little red door opened and closed with a snap. I even found an old pair of child’s pajamas printed with cute little mice to cut out “family portraits” to hang on the inside of the walls.

Furnishings included a little bed with a quilt and pillow. I made the sofa and matching armchair from a dress I’d worn in Grade Seven.

The three mice were made from fuzzy blue fabric with pink lining for their ears and tails of braided blue yarn. Mama Mouse wore her own little bib apron, while Papa and Baby sported only red ribbons around their necks. 

Those walls stood much straighter in 1986.

As Christmas grew closer and my belly grew bigger (our third arrived January 7), I feared I’d never finish the mouse house on time. Then hubby had to attend a conference that involved staying in a downtown Winnipeg hotel. Did I want to go along? Boy, did I!

We farmed out the kids. I packed my sewing machine and all the cut-out parts, then set up shop in our hotel room. Two uninterrupted days to work on this project felt like the biggest treat. There I sat, larger than a house myself, working away at a sewing machine. Thread, stuffing, and Velcro bits lay scattered about. I can only imagine the “guess what I saw today” story the housekeeper told after leaving our room.

Our girl spent many happy hours playing with her mouse house. Last Christmas, she discovered it in our storage room and decided to take it home. I said, “At least let me fix it for you.” The roof was falling off, the furniture coming apart, the mice looking extremely ratty.

She didn’t argue. I put the house in my office so I wouldn’t forget about it.

Seven months went by.

Finally, realizing I would see Mindy again at the end of September, I got to work. This time I used a glue gun for several of the repairs, saving myself a ton of stitching. The mouse family received new whiskers. I reinforced their tails. Mama Mouse underwent eye surgery which altered her appearance, but her vision remains unchanged.

I probably spent a good six hours fixing the mouse house. Although none of those hours were interrupted by children, I do find threading a needle more time-consuming than I did 36 years ago. Go figure.

Jesus of Nazareth, the most talented carpenter who ever lived, is preparing a place with “many houses” for his beloved children. I like to think he’s putting all the care and love into mine that I put into Mindy’s mouse house—but with a lot more skill, and no need for repairs in 36 or 360 or 36,000 years.

I can’t wait to open the door to mine!

High Hopes

One cool thing about getting married while you’re still a baby is that you can mark significant anniversaries typically celebrated only by old people. Last January, when I realized that October 1, 2022 will mark 45 years since our wedding day, and that it fell on the Saturday of a long weekend, I began to scheme. All I wanted was to have our kids and grandkids with us for a few days. Organizing a family photo shoot would be the icing on the cake.

Odds were against making this happen. Covid-19 was still raging. Some of our crew would need to travel from Alberta. It would mean pulling kids out of school. Coordinating it all felt insurmountable. But with nine months’ lead time, I decided to start planning, hoping the early notice would work in our favor.

Once I had all our kids at least semi-committed, I booked three nights at a friend’s cottage near Clear Lake. They warned us it was up for sale, but they’d take it off the market if it hadn’t sold by the end of April. I booked a photographer friend to join us for one of the three days. Although everything seemed set, I knew I would need to hold the whole plan with open hands so that it would be less painful if it fell apart.

It has indeed tried to fall apart several times.

First, a job loss resulted in a plummeting income. How could we afford this now? I never would have started planning had I known. We decided to wait and pray. Before long, we received an unexpected cash gift that would cover the cost. It was easy to decide what to earmark the money for. Onward and upward.

Then, our friends sold their cottage. I wanted to cry but prayed instead. I approached another friend with a cottage, expecting to hear they did not rent it out. It turned out their cottage was not only available to us but also had more to offer at less cost. We booked it.

Shortly after that, our Alberta kids learned they had to move. Given their time constraints and Calgary housing, there was a likely chance they would need to be moving the weekend of our anniversary and would not be making the trip. I prayed hard about this one because no amount of texting, phoning, or alternative planning on my part could fix it. But on July 29 our daughter texted that they’d be getting the keys to their new digs in mid-August, leaving plenty of time to settle in before heading for Manitoba. Yay!

Next, we learned our photographer may have to bow out due to a family health situation. This one is still up in the air and being prayed about. We may have to settle for trying to take our own pictures, but at least we’ll have made memories.

Getting this family together for a photo might be easier.

 Between the prayers and the problem-solving, I’ve been planning meals and activities for this event while still trying to “hold it loosely.” Is that even possible? Having it pried out of my hands at this stage would be painful for sure. But holding it so loosely that I fail to plan would mean it never happens. It reminds me of that old saying, “Plan like you’ll live forever, live like you’ll die tonight.”

Maybe only mothers of adult children can fully appreciate the value of and the longing for this type of gathering—especially those for whom it’s a rare occurrence. A dozen things could still go wrong and some of them probably will. The juggle and struggle between our expectations and our disappointments can feel like a high-wire tightrope act, can’t it? As much as I want everybody present, happy to be there, getting along with each other, and returning home feeling loved and blessed and glad they came—it’s out of my hands. Seems like a lot to ask. Seems like high hopes.

I’ll keep you posted.

My Stint in a One-Room School

It’s hard to imagine that less than 200 years ago, education was only for the rich. During the 1840s, Egerton Ryerson, a Methodist preacher and editor, was appointed superintendent of schools for Upper Canada. He introduced a public school system that was to be free, universal, and supported by taxation in order to be open to all. He insisted that education should have a religious foundation and include studies in grammar, geography, science, arithmetic, music, drawing, history, civics, nature study, physical training, and hygiene.

The idea was met with controversy. Not everyone valued education. Those without school-aged children balked at the idea of having to share the cost. Others saw education as a waste, especially for girls. (I, for one, am beyond grateful that clearer heads prevailed!)

Townships were divided into school districts, each led by elected trustees and having its own building and teacher. Attendance would be compulsory for children aged six through fourteen. Typically, a farmer would donate or sell a corner of his field for the school. A log shanty might be constructed, depending on resources. Some schools were built of brick and stone. In some remote areas of northern Ontario, they used train cars. By 1917, so many schools were going up as the west became populated that Eaton’s catalog offered a school kit in three different sizes. It included lumber, nails, hardware, insulation, and paint. The largest kit sold for $829.00.

Each district was charged with naming itself, and residents proved themselves creative. Near Ogden, now a suburb of Calgary, most citizens were employed by the Canadian Pacific Railway and wished to name their school after their employer. When they learned it would be illegal to use the CPR name, they chose to call their district “Cepeear,” pronounced exactly the same way.

Although many Canadians over sixty once attended a one-room school, few today can imagine how a teacher could handle eight grades at once or how any learning was accomplished. My own parents are both products of these schools, and all four of my older siblings attended one as well. By the time I grew old enough, we lived in town. 

Falmouth School, where my mom & siblings attended

I did, however, enjoy a four-day career as a one-room school student. With a February birthday, I would be approaching age seven by the time I was eligible to begin Grade One. My parents arranged for me to start a year early at a country school. Since several of the other students were my cousins, I did fine. When another parent complained, however, the trustees ended it. Rules were rules and I needed to wait another year before starting in the town school. That experience gave me a taste of country school. I remember best and appreciate most how the older children watched out for us little ones and everybody played together. With so few students, I suppose they had little choice, but I never witnessed this level of camaraderie again.

In “Syrup Pails and Gopher Tails: Memories of the One-Room School,” John C. Charyk shared his colorful experiences as both a student and a teacher. Students shared tasks such as hauling drinking water. In the early years, this might mean carrying full pails from a river a quarter of a mile away or hauling in ice blocks from the icehouse where they were packed in straw. For those who rode horses to school, stabling the horse and meeting its needs were also a part of their school day.

Teachers, some as young as eighteen, might have received only one year of training before being tasked with such an enormous responsibility. Each needed to serve not only as teacher of all subjects for all grades, but also as principal, school nurse, playground supervisor, Christmas concert organizer, office staff, and athletic coach. They often had to keep the stove going in winter, shovel snow, and more.

The one-room school proved that people can do hard things. Despite the many distractions, most students did receive an education. Some, like John Charyk, went on to become brilliant authors who recorded for future generations what life was like in a one-room school.