We stopped by the schoolhouse to attend to its mammoth, and beautifully fabricated, wood burner.

We could see our breath. We had dressed in layers and so lingered. The air warmed, slowly.

Upwelling currents made dust swirl and eddy. Particles turned somersaults to meander through shafts of illuminated volume.

To pass the time I studied, of all things, the floor. Four small holes, darkly stained and paired, showed where a desk had been moored. Eight more close by, and arranged in a circle, told of the placement of its partner. Twenty-four sets, revealed by tiny spaces.

Odors lingered in tucked away corners. Some synesthetic response tricked me into thinking I could hear young voices.

I am reminded of the importance of the past and of stewardship of its relics.


7 thoughts on “Schoolhouse

  1. What a beautiful space. My grade school had large windows in each room, too. They opened, and had no screens. Once, a butterfly flew into my second grade classroom, and our teacher stopped the lesson while we watched it.

  2. Those shadows of past desks, the patina of age … what stories they could tell. This so enchanted me that I Googled the school house. Very interesting restoration project. Thank you!

  3. Looks warm and toasty in there. I imagine Laura Ingalls Wilder walking through the door. I have one of those old wooden desks and remember having similar ones when I was in the first grade.

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