Memories of two very different kinds of English teacher: one ridiculing, another with an unusual choice for the class reading book…
As a result of passing the 11+ examination, I was deemed clever enough to go to a grammar school in the second part of the 1950’s. The school was in a nearby Rossendale mill town, and I hated most of my time spent there. Things were not helped by a particular English lesson which I think was probably the first for me and my classmates in Year 1, newcomers all. The woman teacher had handed out a class book and various pupils were asked to read aloud. When my turn came to read from the book I did just that – but in my heavy Lancashire accent, dropping my ‘aitches’ as was natural to me. Showing little sympathy or appreciation of my background, the teacher ridiculed my effort with remarks about being in a grammar school now and the consequent need to speak better than that, in a ‘proper’ way. How was I to know that the language and speech patterns of my mother and father, brothers and sisters, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, the children and adults I had grown up with - virtually the whole town of my childish experiences - were no longer acceptable in this new school? How I have wished, in later years, that I could have answered her in a spirited fashion with a grand speech on the richness of the local dialect and the irrelevance of accent and the importance, instead, on what is said rather than how it is said - but the truth is that I probably blushed and mumbled something in an apologetic manner, miserable and deflated by the experience. Such was my introduction to formal English lessons in the new school.
But there was another English teacher, in the same school a couple of years after, who introduced our class to a book which I still remember fondly. The surprising thing to me now is how this old lady with a bun in her hair, seemingly far removed from her young charges, could introduce us to a book which was so lively and enchanting (and yet at the same time obscure – I don’t remember hearing about this book in subsequent years, as if it is strangely out of favour). The book was called ‘Autobiography of a Supertramp’ by the poet and author W.H. Davies and was first published in 1907. It tells the story of a young Welshman’s journeys as a hobo across the United States of America in the period 1893 to 1899. It is a rich account of the life of a hobo and the characters he met with on his travels, of times spent telling tall stories around camp fires, an adventurous life both carefree and exciting – or so it seemed to this reader. Best of all, the travelling was free, jumping on the many freight trains which criss-crossed this vast country, and taking a ride to wherever the loco was going. Yet this transportation was not without risk, as evidenced by the author losing part of his leg in one mishap getting on - or off - a moving train (I can’t remember now which it was) quite apart from the risks of tangling with the violent railway guards who would beat the hobos to within an inch of their lives if they were caught trespassing on railway property. In short, a captivating and entertaining story for a teenager or adult. Thank you Mrs Brunton.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/W._H._Davies
W. H. Davies
Leisure
WHAT is this life if, full of care,We have no time to stand and stare?
No time to stand beneath the boughs,And stare as long as sheep and cows:
No time to see, when woods we pass,Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass:
No time to see, in broad daylight,Streams full of stars, like skies at night:
No time to turn at Beauty's glance,And watch her feet, how they can dance:
No time to wait till her mouth canEnrich that smile her eyes began?
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
