"Oh, oh! The kids forgot their lunch pail."

Those words, spoken by my mother in the fall of 1919, are my earliest recollection. Mother quickly asked me to take the pail to the school house a mile and a quarter away and give the lunch to my brother Richard (eight) and to my sister, Marjorie (six). I was met at the door by Miss McCrosky, the teacher in this small, one-room country school. She showed me to a seat. Thus began the First Grade of my elementary education at the age of four. I continued to attend from that day on.

Eight decades have passed since that day. Schools are more sophisticated today, but in the search for truth the educators have eliminated the only source where truth can be found. Daniel Webster (1782 - 1852), one of America's greatest statesmen and orators said:
" If religious books are not widely circulated among the masses in this country, I do not know what is to become of us as a nation. And the thought is one to cause solemn reflection on the part of every patriot and Christian. If truth be not diffused, error will be. If God and His Word are not known and received, the devil and His Word will gain the ascendancy; if the evangelical volume does not reach every hamlet, the pages of a corrupt and licentious literature will; if the power of the gospel is not felt throughout the length and breadth of the land, anarchy and misrule, degradation and misery, corruption and darkness will reign without mitigation or end."

I believe I have lived to see this prophetic statement made by Webster some 150 years ago, literally fulfilled. What we have seen in the schools this year, 1999, confirms my evaluation. One of my best teachers, Elizabeth Den Hartog, had a class called "Citizenship". She read the Bible to all the students, then emphasized individual responsibilities in truth, courtesy to others, gratitude, respect for flag, and loyalty; the list is endless but it all had a profound effect on my conduct throughout my life.

We are only on the opening pages of this autobiography and already I'm telling readers what's wrong with today. Please forgive me, but in thinking about my elementary education I had to quote this great statesman, Daniel Webster. Read on. I promise to behave.

Their first child, my brother Richard, was born 11 months after their wedding, followed by seven more children over the next 22 years. My youngest brother, Calvin, told me recently that he had "caught the last egg my mother produced at the age of 46." The family roster read: Richard (1911), Marjorie (1913), Victor (1915), Leona (1919), Milo (1921), Norma (1927), David (1928), and Calvin (1933).

When I think of my growing-up years I separate the five older children from the three younger ones. Dad and Mother had a formal family photograph taken in 1925, thinking that their family was complete. However, through the sovereignty of God three more children were born later. Of the final lot my father said, "These are the best." And with that these three juniors heartily agree.

The Bogaard family always ate together around our large tafel (table). We didn't have then the distractions of television and fast-food restaurants. After offering thanks to our Heavenly Father, Dad always started passing the food to his left. I sat to his right so you can see that I was always served last. I usually got the short end of the helpings. This might not be an accurate evaluation because I'm the tallest of the family. Dessert was always dished out before we ate so I got a fair rationing of that. As the family grew, rations became smaller because they always came out of the same quart fruit jar.

After we finished eating, my father would reach up to the telephone that had a large shelf on it. He would read a chapter or so from the Bible. One of his favorite passages was Ephesians 2:8-9, "For by grace are you saved through faith; and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God; not of works, lest any man should boast."

We would all bow our heads, fold our hands and offer a silent prayer. Most Hollanders look to their Christianity as a very personal relationship. Sometimes the children have a few words they are taught to say at the close of a prayer or Bible study. After the "Amen," we would run outside for work or play, depending on our ages.

My Papa was a stern Dutchman. We children were never allowed to question any decisions he made. Mother was more flexible and, I dare say, more "reasonable". I can never remember a time when Rich, Marj or I ever deliberately disobeyed them.

He always did things to make life easier for Mother. He put a basement under our house. We had the first electric power in the neighborhood. He bought her a piano and he would play the violin. Mother made the three older ones sing hymns. This didn't last long because very few of the Bogaards are gifted with a voice.

Mother was a caring and loving person. If you sat next to her, she would soon be touching and caressing you. At bedtime she would take the three of us upstairs and have us kneel by the bed to recite a Dutch prayer. I have many fond memories of my youth that I can recall today. Yes, I was blessed to have been raised in a functional home.

Mom and Dad lived through a changing era. Society back then expected daughters to be homemakers; they were expected to sew, to darn socks, to can fruits and vegetables for consumption in the winter, not to mention the most important chores--cooking, baking and cleaning. In the 1920s, very few country girls went to high school. My sister Marjorie was no exception. All of my sisters were expected to help raise the younger children and mature into marriage and finally motherhood.

Growing up on a Dutchman's farm was not for weaklings. In summer months we rose at 6 a.m., herded the cows out of the pasture into the milking barn, milked from three to five cows each, separated the cream from the milk, fed the livestock and harnessed the horses for the field work. At different ages we would graduate to different chores. There was always plenty of work to go around.

Mom called us in for breakfast at 7:30. Then back into the fields we'd go during summer months to plow, harrow corn, rake hay or hoe weeds. Younger siblings pulled out morning glories from the corn fields.

After stuffing ourselves we went back into the fields to work from 1 p.m. to 6 p.m., then repeated the morning chores until supper at about 7 p.m. "Lunch" at noon was called "dinner".

We had fun times on evening rides to the neighbors--the Vander Pols, Wiekamps, Van Aalsburgs and Schneiders. We usually went by horseback, but if Marjorie went along we'd hitch Slim to the buggy. As we grew older, we would take the car and go into Sheldon on Saturday and Sunday evenings. Rich was three and a half years older than I, so I got to go into town a little sooner than the usual 16 years when most fellows went out for evenings of fun, eating popcorn on Main Street.

Some years later Dad gave monetary gifts of $500 to each of his children, but I was not included. Dad's comment to my brother Milo was, "Victor will know why." Dropping the extra "a" had cost me some money! Our three grandsons have corrected my youthful indiscretion. They now sign their names "Bogaard". Our Dutch ancestors would be happy. The name "Bogaard" means "Flowering Orchard."

School was never difficult for me. My siblings and I always had good teachers and plenty of time to complete our assignments during school hours. We had little, if any, homework.

Our teachers were young women, many who had two years of training at Iowa State Teachers College in Iowa City. Their classes were full of youngsters, some of whom were not much younger than the teachers. In those days, teachers received salaries from $25 to $35 per month. Parents supported the teachers. Pupils received little help from their parents.

It is not the purpose of this essay to evaluate today's system with the past, which is impossible to reinstate, but rather to exalt the teachers of these rural schools whose footprints of their labors span the globe. These young ladies, only a few years older than some of their students, were expected to do a myriad of tasks, such as janitorial work, supervise recreation, shovel snow off the walk, keep the furnace supplied with fuel, and frequently prepare a hot meal, not to mention their basic duty of teaching--often 8 grades and 30 or 40 classes. A herculean assignment, to say the least, but what a legacy they left.

The Sheldon Community should be complimented in their endeavor to preserve a little history of those by-gone years. Possibly a corner could be set aside and used as a sort of "Hall of Fame". A plaque of good quality, engraved with the names of all of those valiant ladies from O'Brian County, would honor those who gave so much to so many for such little compensation or recognition.

My last memory of my rural school is a very somber one. In the mid forties, after the school had been closed for a few years, my wife and I drove past the site. There, jacked up on heavy timbers, ready to be moved, was a part of my birthright. Carroll School District #8 was no more....

One day shortly after World War II ended I was chatting with my only classmate, Emmett Mullin. Now an attorney, Emmett stated that any success he may have enjoyed in life can be attributed to those outstanding young teachers we had in our early years. He mentioned in particular Elizabeth Den Hartog, his 7th and 8th grade teacher. In 1963, my friend Emmett was appointed a federal judge by his college friend, John F. Kennedy. Emmett was very bright. He sort of set the pace at school. In order to keep up, I had to study a little harder than I might have otherwise. (Thank you, Emmett.)

When I was eight or nine years old, I went to a Fourth of July Parade in Sheldon. The last man in the parade was a sailor dressed in a white uniform. He ran from curb to curb, shaking hands with spectators and having a good time. That night when we got back to the farm I announced to my family that I wanted to be a sailor some day.

My high school years were spent at Archer High, ending at graduation in 1932. Archer was a small town of about 300 souls. It had a high school of about 50 students with 100 pupils in the grammar school. Sheldon was a much larger city of approximately 4,000 people. The Archer School Bus picked up students about a mile and a half from our house, so it was decided that I'd go to Archer. My brother, Rich, enjoyed work more than school, so there was never a question whether he would continue his education by going to high school. With Marjorie, it was a different story. She was a good student and wanted to continue on to high school. I remember her tears when it was determined that she was needed at home to help raise the younger brothers and sisters. This was often an accepted practice in those days for farm girls.

So in January, 1933, I went to Sioux City and took an examination to enlist in the U.S. Navy. I was informed by the officers in charge that it would be 10 months before I'd be called, so I went back and continued working for Dad with no pay.

On Saturday night, my mother gave us each a quarter. We would usually go to a movie in Sheldon, then have an ice cream cone or buy a bag of popcorn. With this limited activity, you can understand why I was looking for something beyond Sheldon, Iowa.

Father remained stern and inflexible. I'd frequently be at odds with him over things that are too petty to recall. Of one thing I was certain: I would leave home the instant the Navy called. Not able to wait, I made plans to strike out for greener pastures before the Navy summons arrived.

Paul Niewenhuis agreed to go with me. Neither one of us had any money in our pockets. I had noticed that my father would, now and then, put into feed sacks some hens that weren't laying eggs and take them to town to sell for cash. We were still in the years of the Depression and from 1929 to 1939 money was very, very scarce. I viewed those chickens out back as just payment for my many years of hard work. I don't want readers to think I stole these chickens. It was sort of an unauthorized requisition. They were my escape from the drudgery of farm life. So I stuffed six chickens into sacks, carried them to town and sold them for a buck apiece. With six dollars in my pocket, I was free at last! Although I left home without telling my parents, I always kept in touch. I wrote a letter every week. As soon as I had a permanent address, mother would write back.

In June, 1933, Paul and I hopped a freight train heading east and rode it to Chicago where we enjoyed the World's Fair. This was my first time away from home. Sleeping in empty box cars and on park benches was a new experience for me. We ended up in Benton Harbor, Michigan, where we found work picking berries, washing dishes in a restaurant and finally sweating it out in a foundry for about five months. Paul went home after about two months; I stayed on in Benton Harbor in a boarding house with other foundry workers earning 25 cents an hour, until the Navy sent me my summons to report for duty at the Naval office in Des Moines, Iowa to be sworn in as a Navy seaman.

Eleven months earlier, when I had taken my first physical in Sioux City, I was 6' 2", the height limit to be in the Navy. Now I stood 6'3". I must have grown some during that time. Too tall.
" Go sit over there with the other three rejects," the officer in charge told me.

That was a low point in my life. The thought of going back to the farm just about killed me. My disappointment must have been registered on my face because the commanding officer invited me to sit for the exams anyhow. When they were completed, I was lined up with the others to be sworn in.

"Now, I must warn you," said the officer. "Navy bunks are only six feet long. You'll be very uncomfortable in them."
" That would be no problem," I quickly told him. He wrote on his chart: 74". In less than a minute, I had my hand in the air, pledging my allegiance to the Navy and to my Country. However, the prophetic statement that officer had made about being "uncomfortable" in a six-foot bunk came true.

With eight other men from Iowa I boarded a train heading for San Diego. A few months earlier I was riding on top of a freight car; now here I was in a pullman heading for a new life in the United States Navy.
Four days later I arrived at the San Diego Naval Training Station. It had eight barracks at that time. Today it covers more than two square miles, but the base is no longer being used. Iowa was cold, dusty and windy when I left; California was beautiful, warm, and sunny. I determined that day, November 20, 1933, that California would some day be my home.