Feature Article September 25, 2003
LAND O' LAKES NewsWeb HomeSchool DaysAs the song goes, "School days, school days, dear old golden rule days . . ."
In its humble shadow, students and teachers alike gathered to celebrate the 100th anniversary of a one-room school in Bradshaw this weekend past. The recently refurbished structure stands as modest testament to educational history for the area - I ventured inside. The tongue-and-groove pine walls had recently received a coat of willow-green paint on which were displayed original artworks of past students. Marbled along the walls were photographs of assorted classes, each picture a page from the human book. Along the back of the room were textbooks of the time, and reports of students throughout its 100-year history - I had stepped through a porthole back in time. "I remember when . . ." was the common refrain of the day as oldsters gathered to review pages from their life's book. While not all memories were drawn immediately into clear focus, each person did their part by adding a piece to the puzzle until the complete memory rose from the ashes of days gone by like a glorious Phoenix of recollection. I discreetly watched as trembling, age-spotted hands would touch old textbooks, then turn the pages of their past. Eyes peered through thick glasses, savoring and drinking in each word as a quivering finger would point the way. Page after page, memory after memory, the leaves were turned until the books would inevitably close to have an old hand momentarily rest on the cover. My eyes traced the route of several gentle old souls as they walked down memory lane gazing upon early class pictures. Taking their journey together, they reveled in the collective memories drawn into focus by those they walked with. I watched one solitary figure taking her journey alone. At one class picture she paused to study it. With unshakeable concentration she scanned the rows of students - she discreetly kissed her index finger and placed it on the cheek of a young man - her father, a brother, her first love? I couldn't be sure; respect kept me from asking.
In walking back to the dirt road running across the front of the old school, I heard snippets of conversations about "the way things used to be." I studied the busy yard and imagined the gentle old souls as the students they once had been. It caused me to smile.
Then a curious thing happened, someone rang the original bell, which had been recovered from a nearby farm. I watched in curious delight as some of the oldsters instinctively turned to walk toward the school - the crisp, clear peals of the bell had invoked a conditioned response. Some giggled at their actions, others sighed with the realization that time had marched on - they all remembered.
This weekend I came to understand the old school was much more than a teaching institution. It was a thread which bound a community together, a social and historical icon of what used to be, a warm and nostalgic connection to the halcyon days of youth, a porthole to a simpler place in time.
