By Evelyn Bruno Finck, Special Writer
Editor’s note: In December 2007, the Hopewell Township Committee designated several historic landmarks. Among them was the Marshall’s Corner Schoolhouse, at 95 Pennington-Hopewell Road.
Now, a proposed ordinance, introduced by the Township Committee recently, would authorize the sale by public bidding of the long out-of-use schoolhouse, which dates to the early-19th century, when the township was an almost totally agricultural entity dotted with one-room schoolhouses.
Under the measure — expected to be scheduled for a public hearing and committee adoption vote in July — a buyer of the one-story, stone and wood-frame schoolhouse would be subject to a deed restriction intended to ensure that the historic character of the building be kept intact. Guidelines to aid its proper use have set up by the township’s Historic Preservation Commission.
The following is an account written some time ago by a lady who attended classes at Marshall’s Corner Schoolhouse.
One of the least celebrated heroines of past generations has got to be the one-room schoolhouse teacher. Just imagine: some 20 youngsters, five different grades, no colleagues, no coffee break, no indoor plumbing!
As residents of a rural New Jersey area between Hopewell and Pennington, my twin brother, our sister two years older, and I spent four of our earliest school years in the attractive stone building in Marshall’s Corner. This was in the early 1930s, well into the Great Depression. Assorted memories from the three of us follow.
The two teachers we had (not at the same time) were young women, attractive and pleasant. We don’t remember misbehavior episodes, scoldings or harsh reprimands.
Clearly, the teacher had to arrive early, perhaps in part to assure herself that the large black furnace in the corner was warm. (A nearby resident was responsible for start-up.)
The students, ranging from kindergartners to fourth-graders, arrived singly or in small groups, some by school bus. We hung our coats in a small entryway and sometimes the teacher helped the younger girls with their galoshes.
A photo I have of our student body one year (perhaps 1932) shows 10 girls and nine boys of varied backgrounds. In addition to the three of us (brother, sister and I) of Italian parentage, there were three Jewish youngsters, one girl with Polish parents, two African-American boys and the rest perhaps of Anglo-Saxon ancestry. One boy is in overalls, two have on neckties and the girls are all in skirts. A significant number came from farm families.
Each class was called everyday to the front of the classroom and sat on a bench facing the teacher. We don’t recall much about what happened there, but can only imagine the teacher’s attention was torn between the small group in front of her and the larger number supposedly working on some assignment.
One chore I remember was handwriting practice. We followed the Palmer Method, which was a mild torment in view of my left-handedness. The teachers did not try to make me change.
We, of course, brought our own lunches and sat facing the teacher, who also had a bag lunch at her desk. One of the most poignant remembrances was provided by my brother who told me a few years ago that he was very embarrassed by our homemade Italian bread sandwiches while the other kids had the soft white American variety.
Another source of some embarrassment (and curiosity) was our older brother dating one of the teachers. Apparently, nothing much came of it.
In the back of the school were two outhouses and a fairly large field where we went during recesses — two a day we believe. There was a tiny stream toward the rear of the property and my brother said that’s where he learned what a tadpole looks like. (That must have been a “guy thing” as I still would not be able to identify a tadpole.)
My sister recalls that a state trooper came to visit occasionally and that he conducted safety drills. Our personal archives did include Safety Certificates, but I don’t know what I did to merit mine. We do remember they were signed by Col. Norman Schwarzkopf Sr., who was the first superintendent of the New Jersey State Police. He was involved in the Lindbergh kidnapping case and is more recently remembered as the father of Gen. Norman Schwarzkopf of Desert Storm fame.
A corncrib, which was located in the field, was filled with corncobs, which the boys would carry indoors for the furnace. They also helped out by taking erasers outside and clapping them together to rid them of chalk residue.
There was a platform next to the schoolhouse where farmers would take their filled milk cans for pickup, by whom, we don’t know. But we do remember one farmer who lived next door to a golf course. He not only brought his milk cans but also stray golfballs, which had ended up on his property. These he gave to us.
When did these teachers get a break? How did they get to the school (we never saw a car)? What were they paid? We may never know the answers. But we do know that these teachers provided us with a good foundation for the grades that followed (even through college!) and that we were lucky to have begun our education in a caring environment.
