It seems untidy to me that a year doesn't start with the first season - Spring - and then cycle through to the fourth season - Winter. In Northern Scotland, we operate a 5-season year: Winter, Spring, Summer, Autumn, Dark Winter. With Dark Winter & Winter being far too long, and Summer being far too short!
Only recently I discovered that in pre-1750s Britain, we did, in fact, start our year at the Vernal Equinox - around 25 March. In a farming year, it would be the perfect time for ploughing, planting and sowing seeds - especially with the lengthening day. A delightful start to any year! But religion and the need for rules put a stop to all that.
With our Gregorian calendar, we start our year in dim January, with the January Blues setting in and nothing but a list of New Year's Resolutions to fall back on.
As a pre-school child, Time was fluid. I wandered the countryside with my sister with a pocketful of biscuits and a heavy glass bottle of Cream Soda tucked under my oxter. Our only parental instructions were, 'Come back before it gets dark', and 'Don't break your legs!' That left quite a lot of scope for adventures in between!
Hunger and fatigue brought us home. We had no need for watches.
Mam said I'd love school. I was willing to give it a go. Mam only had one rule: Don't tell lies.
School turned out to be a place where rules bred, festered and multiplied. And Time had to be precise. Bells rang for this, that and the other. Children had to be lined up to look neater. There was no talking, no smirking, no fidgeting, no fighting and no fun. All these rules were enforced with the Teacher's wild face, bawling voice and that thick leather belt that lay coiled on her desk - the tawse - with its double tongue and threatening lash.
The first day was so scary that I needed to be bribed with chocolate to return. I had endured a bunch of kids who peeped and wailed. It was when they bolted for freedom and rushed towards the door, that the Teacher screamed blue murder and locked the door with a big heavy key. Was school a prison then?
A few days later, I was picked from a sea of hands to give my sentence with 'dog' in it. I answered, 'Ee dowg went doon 'ee rod.' Instead of praise, I was curtly informed that my Caithness dialect was for home use only, that I was in school now and would use the Queen's English.
My Nana spoke in dialect and she could piece the lineage of familes from wayback with a mind-filing system that included knowing their parentage and/or their trade. This was very clever. And she taught us how to assemble a fire that worked first-time; how to make soup, pancakes and jam; told us stories by lamplight; told us about the 'unlucky' plants and flowers that could not be taken inside in a posy - and so much more. She adapted dialect words to make her stories more expressive and very lyrical. I doubted this 'Queen's English' could do that. I would think about this for a bit longer.
I decided to keep my hand down meantime.
On Primary 2, I was given a cross for putting Hedgehog in the FAST column, because the Teacher believed the animal was leisurely. But one night, when I was getting coal from the shed, I followed a small dark shape as it sped along the pavement. When I managed to catch up with it, I was surprised to discover it was a hedgehog! Again, I held my tongue. But I was still thinking.
On Primary 3, I was belted with the other 'smart Alecs' who had written down the first 3 words in the spelling test, before the Teacher had said them. But we knew they'd be in the same order as she'd set them as homework. I tried to get all 10 down quicker than anyone else. AND we'd spelt them right.
Also, I was made an example of for writing on my desk. But I was just tracing out the facts with my finger, to commit them to memory as a picture. I told her I wasn't holding my pencil so couldn't have damaged the 'school's property'. Her face flushed and an unfamiliar word insolent got mentioned. And I should seriously think about this. I did. I told Mam I wasn't going back. School didn't suit me. I stayed off for a week. Then Mam had to go up and talk to the Teacher. I returned. I would have to make pictures in my head from now on.
On Primary 4, the Teacher referred to a poster on the wall showing African animals at a watering hole. 'It may seem impossible that a lion is at the centre of this picture. But why do you think he could be there?' she'd asked. Eventually, she had to tell us that the lion had probably eaten and the other animals knew this and didn't need to keep their distance.
I laughed. Personally, I couldn't understand why every single bird & animal in the whole of Africa was at that watering hole at exactly the same time? That seemed both baffling & outrageous to me! Pictures could be amazing!
On Primary 5, I won an art prize. I went to the local bookshop, with other prize winners, with a Book Token to select any book I wanted. I chose a poetry book. Our books were then presented to us at a Prize Giving at the end of term.
I liked this. I decided to keep a lid on my skepticism about my Teacher's knowledge and regurgitate the facts as she knew them. My marks improved and I was soon in the top group for everything!
On Primary 6, I discussed, in the playground, the construction of the Pyramids with the builder's son. 'I reckon they'd've needed pretty beeg foonds (foundations) an' pretty beeg bulldozers an' cranes to shift 'em muckle bools tae 'at height,' he said. I concurred. Let's just say, we were both dubious about the Teacher's explanation. 'She wisna even 'ere,' he added, for good measure.
On Primary 7, The Theory of Evolution left me unconvinced, although the Teacher was as fond of Nature Study as me. And she was very good at drawing. She could have been my Best Teacher, but for the Evolution stuff.
I left Primary School with a forensically critical view of Facts, a psychological approach to Attainment, and a high regard for the persuasive power of Pictures.
What a good education!
And I still speak in dialect.
