March 28, 2011

• Knowing of my interest in the old people, places and things of the Ozarks, folks sometimes come up to me to say, “I know something [or some place or someone] you should see.” They proceed to give me directions and I mentally take notes, hoping that a rare free afternoon will soon occur, allowing the opportunity for a jaunt into the past. Sunday afternoons are often the best times for these adventures. And although this past weekend was cold and rainy and even a little icy at times, by mid-afternoon yesterday the weather had faired off enough to lure us out on the trail of a discovery.

  One-room schoolhouses are of special interest to me. While once they were numerous and ordinary throughout these hills, now they are scarce and becoming scarcer. So when an older fellow said this one was worth a visit, I could hardly rest until it was found.

                         

  But what he didn’t say was that we were to be doubly rewarded. As we tooled down what we hoped was the correct dirt road, the sight of this old house made me exclaim, “Stop! Oh, farmboy, would you look at that? Isn’t that beautiful?”

  No, the house itself isn’t beautiful in any architectural or aesthetic sense, but the setting and the color and the drifts of golden daffodils and the singing spring branch flowing beside it all combined to create the homiest, sweetest houseplace ever.

  He sighed, brought the truck to a halt, and patiently picked up a farm magazine to read while I trespassed.

  Yes, I admit that I am given to trespassing, when a place like this presents itself. So without hesitation I climbed the fence and, camera in hand, boldly proceeded to get up close. Should I feel that it is wrong to thus break the law? Possibly. But I cannot summon up any guilt. I try to imagine what the current owner would think. He/she surely would not mind for pictures being taken. I touch nothing, not even a flower, but I stand and listen and wonder about the family that lived here, the woman who undoubtedly planted the daffodils and arranged the flat rocks around the perimeter of the square bed they now ignore. There is an almot tangible feeling of contentment and peace here. They were happy, I think, the family whose home it was.

  I turn to walk back to my patiently-waiting chauffeur and, glancing off to the north, I see her….a ghost, across the spring branch, standing on a little rise, almost hidden in a tangle of vines and brambles. The old schoolhouse has been watching me the whole time!

                       

  So once again, the breaking of the law happens.(I hope no local sheriffs or law-enforcement people are reading this, for a written confession would condemn me if I am brought to court.) Since he spent his early years in a one-room school, this trek holds interest for the farmboy, and off we go.

                       

  The little rushing creek must be crossed, and he kindly places a stepping stone in the middle for me. I bravely (read: clumsily) leap and make it across with minimally wet feet, and we climb up the rise to the abandoned school.

                      

  Thanks to a good, sound roof, the old building is in pretty good shape. It is nicely built, with a pretty belfry on top.

                      

  Though the bell is long gone, it is easy to imagine how it rang through this valley and surrounding hills, calling generations of children to come and learn.

                     

  The pump is a Chandler, and if it was primed, I’ll bet it would still work. It looks like a sentinel, still standing at attention after years and years of service, guarding this old place.

                       

  Inside, there are echoes of this school’s working days. The old cupboard, now a home to rats, once held supplies.

                  

  This crooked bookshelf …

                  

   

  once held a small but mighty library, a window on the world for backwoods children in early times. The old flue…

                  

  carried away woodsmoke from a stove that has since disappeared. And the blackboard…

                 

  this blackboard could surely tell stories if it could talk, stories of ABCs and 123s, ciphering matches, lessons learned. Do you know that blackboards are no longer a part of the classroom? They’ve been replaced, first by dryboards and now by smartboards. But in those earlier days, they were the teacher’s handiest tool.

                     

  Modern schools are vastly different, in every way, from this ancestor…

                     

  whose benches and desks once held all eight grades together. It’s hard to imagine how it worked from today’s vantage point. But if you ask anyone who attended one of these old one-room schools, they will tell you they got a first-rate education there, one that prepared them well for the future.

  Once our discovery has been made and examined and captured in memory and on film, we set off for home. I feel satisfied at having found the old school; the old house was just icing on the cake. And there is a twinge of sadness, of letdown–

  But wait! Remember how that fellow said there was another old school…and the cemetery where his Civil War-veteran grandfather is buried? And that spring with all the watercress and the old springhouse?

  Stay tuned…

  • 10:36 am
  • 21 Comments