The little brick schoolhouse
where Mama used to go,
sets quietly atop the hill
thru’ summer heat and snow.
The bell on top is silent now,
the window shutters tight,
the door is weather-beaten,
and floors an awful sight.
The old woodstove is centered
in the middle of the room,
lilac bushes, long forgot,
beside brick walls still bloom.
Blackboards stretch across one end
stained with dust and chalk,
memories those walls could tell
if only they could talk.
Honored places now are faded
where president paintings hung,
Pledge of Allegiance always said
when morning bell was rung.
There’s a hitchin’ post for horses
the children rode to school,
no bus for transportation then
to learn the Golden Rule.
It’s just an ancient building
say young folks of today,
but Mama tells of happy times,
of study, friends, and play.
They learned their manners,
ABCs, history, arithmetic,
those who sometimes misbehaved
were swatted with a stick.
Discipline was taught there,
honor and respect,
to take responsibility,
not leave one’s youth unchecked.
The old place holds the secrets
of bygone days long passed,
of children growing tall and straight
with rules of life to last.
That dear old country school
where youngsters sought their goal
within those walls of mortared brick
stands now empty of its soul…
Copyright Tamara Hillman
