eighth time.
When he was employed by Wheelwright Academy, Arthur Nichols would wake up so early in the morning, sometimes as early as 4:30, that his wife would still be fast asleep. Nichols was never one for cooking, so he’d just burn some toast on the stove and butter it in a mad frenzy, which was his way when it came to getting to the school as early as he could.
In fact, the earlier Mr. Nichols arrived at work, so much the better. He hated the clamoring of students before classes began, and he couldn’t stand the other teachers who would see him hard at work preparing for class and interrupt him simply to talk nonsense. Usually it was something trivial, such as asking him the time or inquiring whether any coffee was left in the pot, so it became a necessity for him to have as much time to himself as possible because he loved the peace and quiet that arriving at the schoolhouse at 6:00 a.m. offered.
Wheelwright Academy was the only educational institution in Holly and staffed eight teachers for its nearly 200 students, who ranged in age from ten to sixteen. Children under the age of ten were home-schooled. Rather than clustering them together according to age, students of all ages were thrown into subject classes because there weren’t enough teachers for all six age groups. Wheelwright Academy’s eight teachers, Mr. Nichols being one of them, had two different classes each, enrolling students with age differences varying from one to six years.
There were four subjects and two teachers for each one. The curriculum consisted of mathematics, history, reading, and writing. Due to the huge disparity in students’ ability, differentiation of instruction was the order of the day. This was a challenge, to be sure, since each class had between thirty and thirty-five students. A teacher in one of these classes thus would need to make out four different lessons per day—one for the ten—and eleven-year-olds, another for the twelve—to thirteen-year-olds, a third for the fourteen—to fifteen-year-olds and still another for the graduating class of sixteen-year-olds. Each class lasted an hour and fifteen minutes, with an hour set aside for lunch.
With a schedule like this, faculty attrition at Wheelwright Academy was considerable. One of the eight teachers invariably left each year. Replacements almost always came from neighboring towns who didn’t know how the Academy worked until after they had accepted the job. But Arthur Nichols, “history professor extraordinaire ” as he was known, worked at the Academy for twenty-seven years, spending endless hours there, arriving early enough to greet the maintenance man, who’d light the furnace first thing in the morning, and leaving late enough in the evening to see all the lights extinguished.
Now that he was retired, too much of a good thing became the norm for Arthur Nichols, who now, having finished half of his tired eggs over medium with lightly buttered toast and black coffee, got up from the table to perform his next usual task of the morning. Having grabbed a piece of hard chocolate candy from the dish on the kitchen table next to his coffee cup and putting it into his pocket, Nichols hastened out of the kitchen to retrieve the newspaper.
Normally you would expect to have your paper by the time you sat down to breakfast, but not in Holly. Jordy Fitzpatrick, whose parents regularly attended Sunday Mass at St. Andrew’s Roman Catholic Church, partly because they simply loved Father Poole, always delivered his newspapers late since the indolent paperboy wouldn’t even think of getting out of bed before 6:00. He never made it to Mr. Nichols’ front steps until the end of his route at about 7:15 a.m.
Anxious to grab his newspaper and retreat back into his warm house, Arthur Nichols thought, It’s getting awfully chilly. Hell, why wouldn’t it? It’s Halloween tomorrow, and this Indian summer’s been relentless . The cool morning was a great relief in fact to the
When he was employed by Wheelwright Academy, Arthur Nichols would wake up so early in the morning, sometimes as early as 4:30, that his wife would still be fast asleep. Nichols was never one for cooking, so he’d just burn some toast on the stove and butter it in a mad frenzy, which was his way when it came to getting to the school as early as he could.
In fact, the earlier Mr. Nichols arrived at work, so much the better. He hated the clamoring of students before classes began, and he couldn’t stand the other teachers who would see him hard at work preparing for class and interrupt him simply to talk nonsense. Usually it was something trivial, such as asking him the time or inquiring whether any coffee was left in the pot, so it became a necessity for him to have as much time to himself as possible because he loved the peace and quiet that arriving at the schoolhouse at 6:00 a.m. offered.
Wheelwright Academy was the only educational institution in Holly and staffed eight teachers for its nearly 200 students, who ranged in age from ten to sixteen. Children under the age of ten were home-schooled. Rather than clustering them together according to age, students of all ages were thrown into subject classes because there weren’t enough teachers for all six age groups. Wheelwright Academy’s eight teachers, Mr. Nichols being one of them, had two different classes each, enrolling students with age differences varying from one to six years.
There were four subjects and two teachers for each one. The curriculum consisted of mathematics, history, reading, and writing. Due to the huge disparity in students’ ability, differentiation of instruction was the order of the day. This was a challenge, to be sure, since each class had between thirty and thirty-five students. A teacher in one of these classes thus would need to make out four different lessons per day—one for the ten—and eleven-year-olds, another for the twelve—to thirteen-year-olds, a third for the fourteen—to fifteen-year-olds and still another for the graduating class of sixteen-year-olds. Each class lasted an hour and fifteen minutes, with an hour set aside for lunch.
With a schedule like this, faculty attrition at Wheelwright Academy was considerable. One of the eight teachers invariably left each year. Replacements almost always came from neighboring towns who didn’t know how the Academy worked until after they had accepted the job. But Arthur Nichols, “history professor extraordinaire ” as he was known, worked at the Academy for twenty-seven years, spending endless hours there, arriving early enough to greet the maintenance man, who’d light the furnace first thing in the morning, and leaving late enough in the evening to see all the lights extinguished.
Now that he was retired, too much of a good thing became the norm for Arthur Nichols, who now, having finished half of his tired eggs over medium with lightly buttered toast and black coffee, got up from the table to perform his next usual task of the morning. Having grabbed a piece of hard chocolate candy from the dish on the kitchen table next to his coffee cup and putting it into his pocket, Nichols hastened out of the kitchen to retrieve the newspaper.
Normally you would expect to have your paper by the time you sat down to breakfast, but not in Holly. Jordy Fitzpatrick, whose parents regularly attended Sunday Mass at St. Andrew’s Roman Catholic Church, partly because they simply loved Father Poole, always delivered his newspapers late since the indolent paperboy wouldn’t even think of getting out of bed before 6:00. He never made it to Mr. Nichols’ front steps until the end of his route at about 7:15 a.m.
Anxious to grab his newspaper and retreat back into his warm house, Arthur Nichols thought, It’s getting awfully chilly. Hell, why wouldn’t it? It’s Halloween tomorrow, and this Indian summer’s been relentless . The cool morning was a great relief in fact to the
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