The Meaning of Rural

Wedged between cattle country and sheepherders is an oft overlooked patch of land at the base of the Crazy Mountains where the elementary school in Melville, Montana stands as one of only 60 rural schools still open in Montana. With a density estimate of one person per square mile, Melville easily fits the label of rural.

It might sound like I’m bragging, but I attended second and third grades in Melville’s two-room schoolhouse. My mother taught grades fifth through eighth in the other room. She started her career in the 1940s as a school teacher in a one-room school house about forty-five minutes west of Grand Forks, North Dakota. She also played basketball when women were “stand-ins” during WWII. That last part I meant to sound like bragging.

Located halfway between Harlowton and Big Timber, Melville had a few claims to fame. The town was originally settled by Norwegians and the first Lutheran church in Montana was established there in 1885. The elementary school was the first English-speaking rural school in Sweet Grass County in 1882. Before that, only Norwegian was spoken.

Back then, schools were three to five miles apart. That was the expected distance for students to walk or ride horseback. There were 2,793 rural schools at the peak.

In the late 1960s, when I attended Melville, Mom and I drove forty-eight miles roundtrip from Harlo each day. Sometimes, we stayed in the small Teacherage beside the school so we didn’t have to brave the roads at night. Teacherages were like Rectories only smaller, and used more for short-term needs. We didn’t always know when we left in the morning if we’d have to “hole up” at the Teacherage. On those unexpected, away-from-home, nights, Mom made me a new dress or top for the next of school. She loved to sew and was happy for the silence of the cow pastures to allow her the time. I found the mooing of the cows soothing and, best of all, staying at the Teacherage meant macaroni and cheese and hot dogs for dinner.

Melville Elementary school is a character in BOOTSTRAP. It’s only mentioned once but its role was major. I attended school there on the day that I learned my father died.

It was January 1967. I was eight. There had been snow, but the roads were clear. That’s why I was surprised when Mom interrupted my classroom where Mrs. Clark taught grades first through fourth. Mom called me into the foyer. She knelt down, looked me in the face with her red, wet eyes and said that Mrs. Clark would drive me home after school. She was leaving early. It wasn’t unusual for me to go home with Mrs. Clark. I sometimes stayed with her and her husband at their nearby ranch. She taught me beginning piano and was our source for lutefisk at Christmas. It was unusual to see Mom’s frightened eyes and Mrs. Clark wasn’t taking me to her house. She was taking me to my house.

Since there were four grades in one room, we formed study partners with the students in the grades below and above us. Those who knew more helped those who were still learning. I benefited from helping second graders and learning from fourth graders. On the playground, we swung from monkey bars confident that, if our hands slipped, one of the older students would be there to soften the blow.

But on that day, I couldn’t wait for class to be let out. When it did, Mrs. Clark and I collected our things and drove the thirty minutes in silence. Her car was hot and her floral perfume was stifling. I worried I might throw up.

I imagined a positive outcome. A welcome home surprise party for Dad who had been undergoing heart tests at St. Mary’s Hospital in Minnesota.

But that wasn’t the news.

Dad had died during his last test. His body was on its way back home in a box. Someone handed me the last letter he wrote. It was addressed to me. He told me about his hospital stay and quickly shifted to instructing Mom about the plan for when he flew home.

Nowadays, when I drive by Melville, I sometimes stop by the school. I walk around, take a few pictures, and stare in awe at the mountains behind the buildings. The Crazies shoot up so high that you think you’re staring at the Grand Tetons. Maybe Dad’s up there with them, I always think.

I still play one of the songs that Mrs. Clark taught me on the piano, Heart and Soul. I reminisce of her seated next to me, smiling, tapping her foot to the beat.

I rarely think about the conversation with my mother in the foyer unless something triggers the memory. But when I do recall that day, I’m overwhelmed with appreciation for growing up in a rural community where you’re never alone even with the wide-open spaces as measured by one person per square mile. Someone will be there to soften the blow.

Melville Elementary celebrated its 124-year anniversary in 2006 and is still going strong at age 144. Photo above taken in 2022.