Chapter 7: First Lessons, Second Thoughts
Teaching School in 1960
Hello all,
This chapter was originally scheduled for Sunday, but today is Walter’s 85th Birthday, so I’m sharing it a few days early, with a request!
His first teaching contract – as both Grade 4-6 teacher and Principal at Cheslatta School – began on September 1st, 1960, when Walter was just 19 years old. The very next day, he turned 20. This chapter looks back on those times, 65 years ago.
If you have been enjoying Walter’s story, I’d love it if you could send me a short note to pass along to him – either in the comments below, or by replying by email.
Both he and my mom enjoy hearing from people who have an interest in days gone by, and the many life experiences they have shared through their stories.
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Walter had hoped to make it all the way to Kelowna, but the night was growing late. He was tired of driving, and besides, there was no rush to get home.
“What do you guys think?” he asked, glancing over at his brother John in the passenger seat, before peering into the rear-view mirror to see Norman, who was riding in the back. “Should we camp here for the night, and finish the drive in the morning?”
After ten hours on the road, no one needed convincing. John had done some of the driving, but the day had been long for them all. East of Cache Creek, Walter turned off the highway onto a side road and slowed to a crawl, the brothers peering into the darkness in search of a place to stop.
Not far in, they found a spot that looked good enough. Rather than bother with the tent, they spread out a ground sheet, unrolled their sleeping bags, and climbed in. Sleep came quickly.
In the morning, daylight revealed more of their campsite. They were surrounded by cactus, with dried cow patties scattered across the ground, and a few fresh ones, too. It was far from ideal, but no one had been skewered by a cactus spine, or laid their head in the wrong place. With only a few hours of driving ahead, they packed up and set off again toward home.
That morning marked the final leg of a grand summer adventure. A few weeks earlier, Walter had arrived in Kelowna after completing second year studies at the University of Victoria. He had been awarded an “Elementary Basic Temporary” teaching certificate, that allowed him to work as an elementary school teacher anywhere in the province. He was eager to secure a job for the fall.
In Kelowna, John was nearing his sixteenth birthday and was keen to get as much driving practice as possible before his road test. Their father, busy with the first growing season in the new orchard, had little time to take him out. After some spirited discussion, it was decided that Walter would take Jake’s car, and along with John and Norm, head north for a few weeks to visit relatives. The trip would serve several purposes: Walter could look for teaching work, John would gain driving experience, the boys would visit relatives, and along the way they could camp and fish.
Walter had collected a list of school districts and carefully mapped a route that would allow him to visit as many offices as possible between Kelowna and Tatalrose, a small farming community southwest of Burns Lake where his Uncle John had a farm.
Armed with little more than basic camping supplies, fishing rods, and a lot of enthusiasm, the three brothers set out. They camped rough, sleeping under the stars, and John took his share of the driving. Along the way, Walter learned more about how difficult the past school year had been for his younger brothers. The move from Black Creek to Kelowna had left them unsettled: they started the year in Black Creek, switched to a Kelowna school when the family rented a house there, then moved again when Jake bought the orchard in Rutland. Three schools in three months had left the boys struggling to take the rest of the year seriously.
Walter, on the other hand, took his goal of finding a teaching job very seriously. After a visiting a few school districts with no vacancies, his persistence finally paid off at the office of School District No. 55 – Burns Lake. He was offered a position teaching Grades 4-6 at Cheslatta School, a two-room country schoolhouse about 35 miles south of Burns Lake. The job came with housing; there were two small cabins on the school grounds where the teachers lived during the school year. Walter would teach the older students, which also made him school principal. His contract started on September 1, 1960. He would still be nineteen on his first day as both teacher and principal, though he would turn twenty the very next day, September 2nd.
With the worry of finding a job behind him, Walter and his brothers continued on to see their Uncle John and his family. Their route took them to the north side of Francois Lake, where a ferry would take them to the Southside, and on to Tatalrose and Cheslatta. Early for the ferry, they decided to stop for lunch. Washing dishes afterwards fell to Norm.
He crouched at the water’s edge, rinsing plates in the cold lake, when one slipped from his hands. The bottom dropped off sharply, and the brothers watched as the plate slipped further and further down the steep shelf, before coming to a rest well beyond Norman’s reach. They didn’t have many supplies, and no one wanted to lose it. Norman looked hopefully at his brothers, but they were quick to declare that the one who dropped it had to fetch it.
With a sigh, Norman stripped down to his shorts and, after a pause, plunged into the frigid water. He had to dive under before finally grabbing the plate. Shivering and teeth chattering, he scrambled back to shore. He didn’t say much to Walt and John for the rest of the day, but the plate had been saved.
The rest of the trip passed without incident. The boys camped, fished, and visited relatives before returning to Kelowna. Through the late summer, Walter worked in local orchards, first thinning apples and peaches, then picking the earlier crops. Soon enough, though, it was time to head north again and begin his first year as teacher and principal at Cheslatta School.
Walt’s dad had bought him an old 1946 Chev with bald tires, poor brakes, and no heater, and that was the car he drove north for the year. On his way, he stopped at the school district office in Burns Lake to collect any classroom supplies or paperwork they had for him, then carried on to Cheslatta.
When he pulled up to his cabin on the school property, he noticed a Volkswagen Beetle already parked in front of the second cabin. Deciding to introduce himself, he went over to meet his colleague. She was an older woman who had been at the school for several years. Polite but distant, she offered nothing beyond a curt greeting. When the silence grew awkward, Walter excused himself and turned to the business of settling in.
His cabin was old and primitive, with an outhouse and no running water. There was a well on the property, but the Superintendent had warned him it was contaminated. Instead, Walter filled a cream can with water from a small spring nearby. It provided enough drinking water, but not enough for bathing. He considered asking his colleague how she managed, but he didn’t think their already tenuous relationship would be improved by bothering her again, so he went exploring.
The Cheslatta River was nearby, only a mile away through the bush. Walt climbed the back fence of the schoolyard, walked through a patch of woods, over another fence, across hay fields, down a bank to the river, and then upstream along a moose trail until he found a waterfall. That became his bathing spot. In warm weather it was a matter of bracing against the cold water, drying off quickly, and heading home. In winter, it took more planning. Walt snowshoed to his spot by the waterfall, tamped down a patch of snow, and built a fire before stripping off for his weekly bath. The frigid water stole his breath and left his legs numb and wooden, but he stumbled back to the fire, dried off, and warmed himself before getting dressing again.
As school got underway, Walter quickly learned that his students cared little for academics but they had a passion for softball. They were excellent players, and games were often arranged against the bigger team from Grassy Plains. The Cheslatta kids beat them every time. The teachers had to make additional rules, such as “you can only take two bases if you hit the ball over the fence”, just to keep the games competitive. Once, Walt watched as one of his boys made a big play for a low, fast line drive. In the process, the fellow somehow stepped on his own glove, somersaulted, and came up with the ball anyway. They were remarkable athletes.
His relationship with his colleague remained cool. She didn’t say much to him, but she seemed unimpressed by a teenager in the role of principal and kept their conversations strictly professional. For his part, Walter made sure any paperwork he was responsible for was completed on time and without error and left her to her work.
Winter arrived in earnest and made Walter increasingly aware of the Chev’s tempermental brakes and bald tires. The tires were bad enough on dry roads, but particularly poor in snow, and after a chinook, they were disastrous. When the warm chinook winds blew, roads turned into rivers of slush; when the temperature dropped again, everything froze into a sheet of blue ice.
One day, creeping down a hill on such roads, Walter saw two loose plow horses trying to cross the icy road. The first horse made it, but the second one turned back – then turned again – right into the path of the sliding car. The Chev bumped into its hindquarters. Everything was moving so slowly, even the horse sank slowly onto the fender, sitting almost gently on the car. Walter craned his neck to look up at the horse, and the horse looked wide-eyed down at him. The car continued sliding, the horse tumbled off, scrambled to its feet, and as soon as it had purchase in the crusty snow on the side of the road, it galloped away. Aside from a smooth, round dent in the fender, no harm was done.
Soon after, Walter took his Uncle John hunting near the head of Francois Lake. They were returning home after a day in the back country. There was no heater in the car, so Uncle John was sitting on a hand to keep it warm and telling a story while Walter eased the car down the snowy logging road, using the unreliable brakes gently, and with respect. Despite Walter’s caution, the car turned sideways. He cranked the wheel to straighten it out, and the car turned the other way, fishtailing all the way down the hill. Walter was in a fight for their lives, but Uncle John never took his hand out from under his leg or paused his story. He just kept going as if there was nothing happening. When Walter finally got the car under control, he briefly noted how unflappable his uncle was, before decided he needed a different vehicle.
A friend of Walter’s had expressed interest in the Chev before, so when Walter mentioned he was ready to sell, his friend Aaron jumped at the chance. Walter thought Aaron should take it for a drive first, just to be sure, since the car had quirks. Together they set off, his friend driving, toward Burns Lake, on a Saturday morning.
At the Southbank ferry landing, they discovered the ferry wasn’t running because of ice. Rather than turn back, they decided to drive around the head of the lake. On the way home, caught up in conversation, they came to a hill with a sharp turn at the bottom and a steep drop to the lake below. Walter felt the car tug as Aaron tapped the brakes, then the sickening pull of lost traction. The car skidded broadside, drifting in what seemed like slow motion through the snowbank, and slid halfway down the embankment before coming to a stop with a dull thud against a tree. It came to a rest there, completely sideways, the engine dead.
For a moment they sat in silence, taking stock. Walter was on the uphill side. The driver’s door was pinned against the tree, but the passenger door opened. Walter eased it wide, awkwardly bracing himself on the snowy slope while fighting gravity as the door tried to swing shut. Once he had a foothold, he shifted his weight carefully out of the car. The vehicle remained steady. Aaron climbed out behind him, and once both were clear of the car, they struggled up the bank. Walter reached the road first and waited as Aaron scrambled up beside him. Standing together, looking down at the stranded car, Walter extended his hand. Aaron gripped it.
“Sold”, Walter said, with a firm handshake.
Aaron laughed, and they settled on a price of $50.00, which was what Walt’s dad had paid for the car a few months earlier. A local farmer used a tractor to haul the car up the bank the next day, and to everyone’s surprise, the car still ran. In fact, it was in pretty good shape, considering the rough ride down the bank. Aaron drove it for a while longer, so he got his money’s worth out of it after all. Walter bought himself a Volkswagen Beetle. It handled the northern winters far better.
When the school year ended, Walter packed his few belongings and drove back to Kelowna. He arrived at his parents’ home to find his father in distress. The cherry crop, the first strong one he’d had, was ripe, ready to be picked, but the night before a thunderstorm rolled through the area. Heavy rain split the fruit on the trees. It was a devastating loss. The family gathered to talk through options. John suggested they salvage what they could, box up the least damaged cherries, and sell them door to door. That was the only plan they had, so they set to work. Once the picking was done, John and Walter pulled the back seat out of John’s 1954 Ford Crown Victoria, filling the car with boxes of cherries from the trunk through to the front seats. Then the brothers set off north into the Cariboo, stopping at every farmhouse and ranch to sell their cargo. They went as far as Quesnel – about 350 miles – before turning back. By the time they reached Clinton, only a few boxes were left. They pulled into a roadside restaurant for a coffee, and while they rested, they sold the last of the fruit. In the circumstances, they figured that was the best outcome possible.
Walter spent the rest of the summer working in orchards, or working with his soon-to-be brother-in-law, Corny build houses.
That fall, when he returned to Cheslatta, he was relieved to see the School District had built new cabins over the summer. They were just basic cabins, there was still no running water, but they were better than the rather primitive cabins from the previous year. There was a big propane tank that the School District arranged to have filled once a year and that powered the heating and lighting for both the cabins and the schoolhouse.
When hunting season opened, various family members came north to visit. His sister Margaret, along with a girlfriend, also made the twelve-hour drive to see him. She expressed surprise when they arrived, road weary, to a rustic cabin in the woods, and the first thing her brother said to her – after greeting them of course – was, “Please take you shoes off.” She teased him about becoming a neat freak, but she obliged.
Walter was settling into the role of teacher, always searching for ways to spark his students’ curiosity and weaving their interests into lessons when he could. The less pleasant part of the job was his colleague, who remained cool toward him. They had no conflict, but the isolation weighed on him. When he learned about a vacancy at the Decker Lake school, near Burns Lake the following year, he applied. He was pleased to be offered the job, and eager for a change, he accepted it.
After another summer of working odd jobs in Kelowna, he moved to Burns Lake. This time, he lived in a boarding house with several other teachers, a considerable step up from the cabin in Cheslatta. The Irish woman who ran the place cooked their meals and did their laundry, though she refused to make coffee. Instead, she pressed boarders to have a cup of tea. She kept a pot of near-black liquid simmering on the back of the stove, and whenever one of the guys sat down, she poured a half cup of the dark brew and topped it with hot water. Declining the offer felt rude to Walter, but the tea was terrible. Despite this, Walter enjoyed the company of the other teachers, as well as their host.
By spring, he was ready for more schooling himself. He enrolled in summer courses at the University of British Columbia where he completed his third-year studies. He earned a “Permanent Teaching Certificate” which opened up more opportunities for him. He also kept an eye out for postings closer to Kelowna. That summer he spotted one for a school at Scotty Creek, six miles north of Cache Creek and applied. The job was his.
But when school began in the fall of 1963, Walter started to wonder if he’d made a mistake. The Superintendent in that school district was stiff and formal, insisting on being addressed as “Doctor” in all communications. He required every lesson plan be written out in a provided template, and lessons delivered exactly as written. That was the opposite of Walter’s style, which leaned on seizing “teachable moments”, and working with the students’ natural curiosity. The rigid lesson plans approved by the Superintendent bored Walter, and if they bored him, he knew they certainly bored the students. These were ranch kids, and Walt knew they saw math, biology, geology, and more every day on their family ranches. When he tied schoolwork to what they already knew, he had their attention, so whenever he saw a chance to make the lesson more relevant or engaging, he took it. The Superintendent reprimanded him again and again. The two clashed all year.
By spring, Walter had had enough. He handed in his resignation, no longer sure teaching was the right career after all. He wasn’t worried – he’d never had trouble finding work – but he had no clear plan for what came next. For now, it was enough to have the miserable school year behind him. Summer would give him time to think, and time to decide what to do next.
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Author’s Notes:
N.B.1: We often see our parents through the lens of their roles in our lives— caregivers, disciplinarians, cheerleaders. Perhaps they are our role models or mentors, but who were they before they became these things to us?"
To better understand who my parents were before they were, well, my parents, I set about interviewing them about their lives before marriage and kids. I started with my mom, and you can read her story here, and now, “Learning to Fly” is the story of my dad.
Walter Harms was the oldest son of Mary and Jake Harms, Mennonites who fled to Canada in search of safety and the hope for a better future. He was a curious child, always interested in the land they lived on, and how things worked. As a young man, this curiosity led him to respond to an advertisement for flying lessons, and the rest, as they say, is history.
Walter is my dad, and this is his story, as told to me in a series of interviews in 2024-25. The story is pieced together from Dad’s memory, photos, and documents. As we all know, memory is fallible. In the telling of this story, some names have been changed, either because they could not be recalled, or to protect the privacy of the person.
N.B.2: If you are interested in reading more about the Mennonite settlement of Grigorievka, Ukraine and the migration of its residents to Canada, the route Walter’s father followed, you might find this account: Memories of Grigorievka, edited by Ted Friesen and Elisabeth Peters, published by the Canadian Mennonite University, to be enlightening.
Happy Birthday Walter 🎂