My Little Wren Goddess

Miss Montgomery

Grade 1 Kimberly Public School 1956-57

She was a petite woman inclined toward solid, Celtic stoutness. She had a strong featured face. Pleasant but not pretty. Her upper lip was graced by a few slender black lengths of silk. Her dark hair was inclined to waves especially when out winter classroom filled with the farmyard humidity of wet mitts, boots, knitted hats and scarves; all roasting on the big silver painted steam radiators. She favoured dark colours; navy or grey skirts paired with brown or navy cardigans. Her blouses were invariably white with sharp-pointed well-starched collars.
Her most interesting feature (in the eyes of a child) was her wooden leg, a souvenir from the war. She would use it to stomp out emphasis for an important point in instruction. She always wore thick, ankle covering leather shoes, their multitude of shiny black grommets laced securely. Her shoes had tree stump heels that aided in the percussion of her steps as she moved across the creaking wooden floors of the classroom.
Her posture was always very straight and her chin up. By some sort of implicit agreement, the pupils never talked about her leg. My family and I assume the other householders in the early to mid fifties, drummed into their children that RESPECT was required for those who fought in the war.
We knew she had been ‘overseas’ and had somehow lost a limb for ‘the cause’ as the war was referred to in the 1950s. I realize now that she was probably a field nurse. But at the time I pictured her wearing a dead-green helmet, like the one in my grandfather’s trunk. I saw her clad in uniform and puttees. I imagined her thrusting forward with rifle and bayonet rifle, she charged forth through barbed wire. I saw her firing the rifle and screaming battle cries at the ‘enemy’.
Rumour was that she lost her fiancée during an important battle. This was seen as a great tragedy since the culture of the day felt that a woman without a man was incomplete. On the other hand, women who remained dedicated to dead fiancée soldiers were deemed to be noble in the extreme.
At the front of the classroom there was a union jack which hung listlessly from its brass embellished oak flagstaff. Once a week Miss Montgomery would discuss the meaning of the flag, “Red is for courage, blue is for truth and white is for purity of heart,” she would tell us. The stripes, she said, represented the St. George Cross of England and the St Andrew Cross of Scotland”. I don’t remember why the saintly symbols of Ireland and Wales. I do remember, that she told us the blue background was a reminder of the oceans that linked the ‘Great Empire’ of England. Anyone who couldn’t promptly recite those salient details regarding the flag had to stay in at recess.
Even in Grade One we were expected to be able to list off the Commonwealth Countries for East to West around the Globe. A huge map of the world with the Empire’s holdings depicted in a peculiar orangey pink, hung in pride of place directly above the chalk board.
Every morning before class began; we rose to sing ‘God Save the King’ and, shortly after the first few months of Kindergarten, ‘God Save the Queen’. A picture of who watched us with a shy smile from her place of honour by the door.
The original version of ‘Oh Canada’ followed the British anthem. We were accompanied by music scratched out with a thick needle on an elderly record player that wavered feebly over the school loud speakers. A primitive intercom was set up with tremendous fanfare during my grade one year. It was considered a great privilege to be the student chosen on a particular morning to drop the needle into the groove. After all we were doing it for the pretty, young Queen.
As we warbled away with the anthems, Miss Montgomery was on the lookout for disrespect. She was quick with her pool cue of a pointer which was prodded sharply between the shoulder blades of anyone who did not stand at attention, showed signs of distraction or forgot the words to the anthems. Her pointer left shameful chalky spots on one’s back so everyone knew you’d failed in your duty.
During the recitation of The Lord’s Prayer she kept an eagle eye out for those who didn’t bow their heads properly, fidgeted or opened their eyes. I thought that she must have special permission from God so she could keep her eyes open to watch us during the recitation.
On special occasions such as parents’ night, school assembly, or spring tea, Miss Montgomery wore her immaculate Legion jacket, an armed forces beret complete with a magnificent multi-coloured crest embroidered on the front, and all her ribbons and medals. In my eyes, she was a miniature general. My, but she was impressive.
She was very supportive of the Red Cross and every month throughout the school year we had a volunteer day when we would fold lint-filled muslin bandages, presumably for stricken refugees.
Every three months, we were required to fill plain, string-tied, muslin bags supplied by the Red Cross with our donations. The bags required of a bar of soap, a flannel (facecloth), toothpaste, tooth brush, nail brush, safety pins, iodine, sticky plasters and comb.
The best part of charitable activities involved shoe box packages. For those we brought shoe boxes to house special gifts for the refugee children. We gathered mitts, scarves, scribblers, a skinny little 6 pack of crayons, a half dozen HB pencils, an eraser (pink only), chocolate bars, a small toy and any other small bits we could squeeze into the oblong containers. My tall father had very big feet and therefore I always had the largest shoebox. There was always plenty of room for indulgences such as hard candy or a tiny bottle of scent.
Miss Montgomery was particularly passionate about these little assembly line projects. She would do a slow march around the classroom assessing the contents of our boxes. So that no one was shamed, we learned to bring extras for the children in our class whose families could not afford the toiletries. I don’t know how she conveyed that message to us but it settled in our little brains quite firmly. My favourite contribution of extras was crayons. The Five and Dime store always kept a good supply on hand. I think they were 10¢ each.
She was rigorous in her demands for tidy packing. Demonstrating how to fold, wrap and place the items. No doubt this was to assure that there was optimum space for all the add-ins. We however thought that poor results would see us staying in at recess for years to come.
The girls would make boxes that included tiny dolls and pink hair clips. The boys would prepare packages with a more masculine emphasis. They would stuff whistles and dinky toys between the soft rolls of knitting and ensured, whenever possible, the items were some shade of blue or red rather than the pastel colors designated for much despised, girls.
After each box was finished we would colour a picture on the outside lid “to make it cheerful,” Miss M said. “and to show the children overseas that we are thoughtful and talented.”
I remember that she kept a large stack of snowy tissue in our supplies’ cupboard. She would smooth one piece in the top of each of our boxes. She looked like the jeweller who had a shop on Kingston road, wrapping diamonds in fine silk.
As we laboured at our charitable work, we were surrounded by the smell of chalk, eraser crumbles, blue ink, dust, floor wax and mildew.
Miss Montgomery, though a Canadian, spoke often of the cliffs of Dover in England. Did her lover take her there? In my mind, I saw her with her anonymous soldier sitting on a blue plaid blanket and picnicking. Listening to her words, I could imagine those gleaming white buttresses of shoreline. I was delighted to learn those heights were made of chalk. Did they smell like the chalk of our classroom? Did they sprinkle the sea air with white powder to be whirled about in the eddy of seagull wings? Had she brought suitcases of cylindrical stones home for use on our blackboard?
I wondered if there were also great coloured mountains of wax in this place called England. Is that where our crayons came from? Did bright wickless candles role in avalanches off the slippery sides?

After each session with the Red Cross bags and the shoe boxes, Miss Montgomery would read us a story from one of the countries she had visited in the war. It was the boys and girls in these places, she told us, to which our packages and parcels would travel. Of all the countries she mentioned, I remember only Holland and that was because of the wonderful story of Hans Brinker, or the Silver Skates. The original novel written by Mary Mapes Dodge was published in 1865. Miss Montgomery was not one for watered down versions. It took many months for her to finish the tale. She read to us in its original, old-fashioned and complicated English.
I also recall this country because we had a classmate who came from Holland. Her family lived in the Netherlands during the war but had come to Canada when she was a baby. Her last name was Dejong and for several years, her family spoke only Dutch. This was an amazing thing to me. How did they know what they were saying if they didn’t use English? Did their brains work in a different way? Miss Montgomery knew the answer to that. She said, “Words stand for the pictures we see in our heads, the things in the world around us and the way we feel, even if the words sound different, the pictures are the same.”
I adored this complicated lady for her brave stance in a confused world but also because she was the keeper of the Dick and Jane books from which she taught us to read. Magic. Pure magic. I cannot describe my joy in the process of learning to match the shapes of letters to the sculpture of words. She unlocked mighty secrets for me. She was a warrior magician. A goddess dressed in dull plumage.
After I left grade one, I would watch for her doing her slow march along the halls or patrolling in the school yard. She was my touchstone. When she monitored the winter schoolyard before classes or at recess, Miss Montgomery wore a navy coat that tangled around her ankles catching on the top hooks where her laced shoes ended. A smooth, crimson wool scarf piled like a scarlet snow drift around her short neck. Her head covering was a navy beret, stiff, well-brushed and lint-free at all times.
She carried a large brass bell with a wooden handle in her leather gloved hands. It was so heavy she had to use two; black leather-gloved, hands to ‘ring’ us back to class. Oddly, I remember that she had rubbery black boots that fit over her shoes covering all but the very high collars which supported her ankles. The front of these boots was shaped like an inverted beak and fastened off to the side with an elastic loop and a shiny black button. In my eyes, they were a fascinating contrivance.
One day, when I was in grade four, she disappeared, never to return. Did she go to Flanders to search for the grave of her lost love? Did she stand on the cliffs of Dover and watch the seagulls soar? I’ll never know.
It took some time for me to adjust to the loss of her presence. As happens with the fortunate young, in time, other beloved teachers stepped forward fill void. But be sure of this, I never forgot my small wren of a goddess who taught me the magic of words.

Reader please note: Miss Montgomery really was my grade one teacher at Kimberly Public School in East End Toronto. She did indeed create the thoughts and pass on the learning outlined in this little tale. But please remember this is a child’s story and may not be historically accurate.