I loved the shaggy log shack my father built. To me, its two front windows, on either side of the slab-wood door, were its eyes. It was my friendly giant, always ready to protect me from all the monsters that were hiding in the bushes that surrounded it.

In the winter I would stand tiptoed beside my older sisters at the four-paned window in the kitchen, blowing peepholes in the lacy designs Jack Frost had painted, so that we could peer out into the inky blackness of early mornings. The lamplight flickering behind me, and the wood crackling in the stove made me feel warm and protected. I remember watching the smoke from the stovepipe spiraling downward, twisting and twirling past the window, like dancing ghosts.

And oh, how I recall the summers, those glorious Northern Alberta summers. My brother and sisters and I would run wild--in our bare feet--through the coulees, thick with bush and shrubs, gathering all kinds of wild flowers: brown eyed susans, daisies, buffalo beans, Indian paintbrush, and baby's breath, not to mention dandelions. Happily we would carry them into the house for our patient mother to arrange into bouquets. I can still taste the imaginary meals we used to make, the mud pies, as well as the concoctions we would create from the "garden" in the woods: wild rhubarb, lamb's quarters, dandelion greens, and anything else we could forage. Imaginary guests--and real ants--would join us for a gourmet meal in our stick-and-leaf playhouse. I enjoyed being a child.

But one day my whole world fell apart. That day--a golden day, when sunlight danced on the leaves, and butterflies flitted, and birds twittered--I got out of bed as usual, happy to be alive and eager to be outdoors running wild and free.

"Time to get ready for school, girls," I heard my mother's cheerful voice ring out. But of course I knew she wasn't talking to me. My two sisters had been going to school for two years. And it was always when the weather was the nicest that their freedom would end and my mother would make her announcement. I remember how sorry I would feel for them, not being able to join my little brother and me as we scrambled through the fields and gullies, splashing our feet in the cool stream.

I gulped down the last of my mush, ran my hand over my mouth, and made a mad dash for the door—and freedom.

"Hold on there, young lady.” My mother caught me by the arm and led me to the washbasin. "You have to go to school, too."

"Me? Go to school? Why do I have to go to school?"

She scrubbed my face. "Put on your shoes and socks, and your new dress," she said, ignoring my questions. I'd seen Mama making me a new dress out of a flowered flour sack, but then, I hadn't had a new dress for a long time, so I thought nothing of it.

With me crying and trying to break free, my sisters dragged me down the path, past the well, across the wheat field, over the railroad tracks, to the little white schoolhouse. Once there, I hid behind my sisters, listening as they greeted their friends. They knew everyone. And they sounded happy to be back at school. But nobody asked me if I wanted to go to school.

The big bell on top of the schoolhouse swung back and forth. I clapped my hands over my ears to drown out the deafening sound. My sisters grabbed me and pulled me along. It was time to go in, time to meet the teacher. What does a person do at school, anyway? I crouched behind Evelyn, inching my way up the steps. I was led through a narrow room--with the funny name of "cloakroom"--where we hung our coats. Still dragging me, Evelyn pulled me into a room. It had rows of odd looking chairs, that she explained to me were desks. They were lined in a few short rows, according to grades. In the back corner of the room was a potbelly stove. At least I knew what that was.

"Glad to see you all back," the teacher said. "This year we have eighteen students, from grade one up to grade eight. And we have a new girl, a beginner." She smiled in my direction, walking toward me.

I didn't know what a "student" was, and what did the teacher mean by "beginner"? In a panic I looked around for my sisters. The teacher took me by the hand and led me to the front of the class.

"You all know each other," she said to the children in front of her. "But maybe some of you don't know Helen. She is our beginner." She led me back to my desk. "Alphonse was here last year," she said, introducing me to the little boy in the desk behind me. "He'll be able to help you."

The next few hours seemed like days. I fidgeted in my seat as the teacher handed out books and pencils. Glancing across the rows of desks, I spotted Evelyn, two rows over. In the row next to her was my oldest sister, Clara. Why did they get to sit next to each other? They'd been to school before. Why was I stuck right in the front desk on the outside row, where everyone could look at me?

The lady they called “teacher” was talking, but I was too frightened to understand what she was saying. I heard a rustling of papers, and then I saw her walking back in my direction, right to Alphonse and me. She led us to the front of the room. "This is a blackboard," she explained, looking at me.

I stared at the black wall in front of me. "And this is chalk." She handed me a white stick that reminded me of the whitewash my father put on the walls at home, over the mud plaster, to make them white. I gawked at the chalk. It left white marks on my fingers. On the blackboard in front of Alphonse she drew a straight line with two shorter lines attached. Then she drew the same thing in front of me, only bigger. I stared at it. "This is an F," I heard her explain. "I want you to trace over it until you can make the letter by yourself."

Alphonse picked up the chalk. He seemed to know exactly what to do. I saw him going over and over and over the lines. But of course, as the teacher had explained, he was here last year. Why would he want to do this all over again? I looked at him again. He seemed to be enjoying making those marks. I gazed at the black wall in front of me and dropped my eyes down to the chalk. What was I supposed to do with this thing in my hand? I stared back again at the board, then at Alphonse, then back at the chalk. My eyes filled with tears. I could no longer see the board--nor the thing on it. I was afraid to look again at Alphonse. So, with tears streaming down my face, I did the only thing I knew to do. I ate the chalk.