Dave Wood

Last year my hometown newspaper published its memories of 75 years and reminded me I was once a fairly good speller, thanks to my rural schoolteacher Miss Adele Hanson who regularly pleased all 10 of us students from first to eighth grade by staging spellings bees, five kids on each side of the one room school with George Washington looking down on us.

This was fun and it gave Miss Hanson some time for creating lesson plans in all subjects for all eight grades. It was also fun because our side usually won because it was spearheaded by Irene Stensby, the only eighth grader. Miss Hanson paired her with me, the only first grader, to ensure age diversity. This went on when I transferred to Blair where there were only two classes in a great big classroom, led by the feisty Miss Brunner who was so impressed with my skill as a speller (thanks to Irene Stensby!), that she walked home through two miles of muddy shale so she could meet my parents and watch my father  dismantle a huge manure pile left by the previous tenant farmer.

My spelling success continued until eighth grade, when adolescence (Grandpa Wood called it “The Stinking Age”), bigger words and the bugaboo of science and math overtook my academic career and overtook me. And the groves of academe turned into a murky swamp. Besides, I missed my favorite teachers, Miss Elsie Anaas and Mrs. Lily Reich, and absolutely detested my eighth-grade teacher who told me my acne wouldn’t be so bad if I got out for recess rather than staying in and reading books.

My Waterloo dawned when the county spelling bee was announced. The winner would be shipped to Minneapolis where the Tribune sponsored an area-wide bee. Mrs. Reich, unaware of my scholastic abilities in decline, finally conceded and off I went.  

Contestants from all over the county were there. Miraculously I survived until there were only two of us. A kid from rural Independence, which was bad news because rural Independence had the Filla sisters and a brother, all teachers in one room schools who reportedly taught only one subject, spelling, staging bee after bee.

My word came up and the quizmaster intoned “David, please spell mulligatawny and use it in a sentence”

Mulligatawny!?  What in hell is that?

I stood there, dumbfounded.

“Vitus, can you spell mulligatawny and use it in a sentence?”

The Polish kid rattled it off like a Thompson machine gun:

“m u l l i g a t a w n y Mulligatawny is one of my favorite soups.”

I returned to school, downcast because I dreaded having to tell Mrs. Reich, who was waiting for me in the Hall, that I came in second because I didn’t know the word. Mrs. Reich countered, “you were up against a Filla student. Second against one of them is just great. Besides, and if you won’t tell, I have no notion of what in the world that mulligatawny stuff is!”

 For your information Mrs. Reich, Webster says it’s” a curry flavored soup of East Indian origin, flavored with chicken or meat broth.” I’ve had many chances to but haven’t had the heart to take one slurp—sorry, I mean sip. In addition, you were already up in normal school heaven when I finally got to a Tribune spelling bee on Minneapolis public TV, as a co-emcee. Every time a contestant missed a word, I wanted to jump up and hug the kid. Thanks for your encouragement over the years!