One Last Lesson Remains Within Long-Closed School

Into the world where violence and discord command front page coverage, into a world that has lost neighborhood cohesiveness and collective community consciousness, occasionally comes a reminder that we are all connected in spite of it all. It can happen in the most unlikely place. I have found one.

In the middle of a windswept wheat field, not far from Spokane by today’s standard of travel, stand the remains of an old schoolhouse. From what I have learned, it was opened in 1892 and closed in 1944.

Fifty-one years of silence have passed since then. It has not heard the squeals and laughter of children or the crack of a teacher’s chalkboard pointer on a desk for a long, long time. However, this matron of education has had visitors - lots of them.

Scrawled across the remaining plaster on its inside wall is graffiti of a different kind than most of us have ever seen. Admittedly, there is an occasional subcortical comment, obscene, defiant and familiar. But at some time, someone started something of a far different nature. It is hard to determine when it began because many inscriptions are faded and unreadable.

Fragments of people’s hearts cover the walls. There is a tribute from a son to his mother with her birth and death dates included. There is a moving recollection of a man who happened to stop by on the anniversary of the battle of Guadalcanal. He inscribed a salutation to the friends he left behind.

There is the signature of a cyclist form Schenectady, N.Y., who was traveling across the United States to live in Seattle.

There is a succinct note of a newlywed couple’s visit and a postscripted date that they were still in love and going strong some time later.

There are plaintive and honest thoughts from people searching for answers in life and people celebrating living.

There are humorous notes and philosophical observations. There are biblical quotations and one disturbing accusation that molestation had taken place at this school on a specific date. There are declarations of love.

One strains at the faded inscriptions, not wanting to miss any of this.

For me, it was profoundly moving experience. I am struck my the humanity of it all. It is a proclamation that we are all the same when it comes to things that matter.

The heart is color- and gender-blind. It is no respecter of economic class, education level or occupation. The human heart knows only what it feels. And here, for some unknown reason, an occasional passer-by, fortified by all that has already been shared, scrawls his own deepest feeling of the moment on the crumbling plaster.

I will not divulge where this school is. Whatever it is that draws travelers inside seems to be very selective, and I do not want to interfere with the process. I only hope she remains for a long, long time.

To the farmer who owns the land on which she stands - thank you for leaving her. She has touched many lives, long past her original purpose.

If only we could grasp the vision that old schoolhouse is witness to! When all the trappings and teachings are removed, we - all of us - are not so different from one another. What is best in us lives on - in spite of it all.

xxxx