Wooden School
One building dominates the village, and it's the
first thing that comes into view as the bus rounds the final turn,
coming up the road from the city down on the coast. The road hugs one
side of the valley, tight against the steep mountainside, and twists
and turns, left and right, as it follows the contours, making its way
past the wide rice fields waving under the summer sun.
The name of this village, where grandad grew up,
is Ozato, 'big village', but this only makes sense in comparison to
the tiny clusters of houses scattered here and there in corners of
the long valley. There are only a few dozen houses even here, but as
it sits roughly halfway between the river mouth at the bottom, and
the final tiny hamlet up at the other end, it is a focal point of
valley activity.
It was thus natural that the education authority
should choose Ozato as the site for the valley middle school over 100
years ago, and it is the roof of this long low wooden building,
standing on the mountainside at a slightly higher level than the
village houses, that one sees from the bus.
Late the other day, out on a stroll with my two
daughters in the early evening cool, we come up the hill towards this
place. The wooden walls are a deep brown, mottled and stained over
the decades, but still a rich colour, not bleached to a dull grey as
are most of the old houses nearby. We cross the stony playground,
climb the front steps, and find that not only do no locks keep us
out, but there are not even any doors to block our access to the
wooden hallway that runs the length of the building, off to our left
and right.
Kicking off our shoes, we step up onto the dark,
shiny wooden floor, and enter another world. I can think of no words
more apt than that tired old phrase 'polished smooth by generations
of feet', to describe this building. Not only the floors, but
everywhere within reach has been rubbed until it actually glows in
the late sunlight that streams horizontally through the front
windows. The doorknobs, handrails, posts ... everything has a deep
sheen like an old-master violin. How many hands have swung around
this corner post here? How many feet have slid across this
entranceway?
The three of us sit down in a row of students'
desks. We disturb nothing, we just want to soak up a tiny bit of the
ambience of this amazing place, but the light is fading rapidly now,
so we quickly walk round the rest of the building. Everything brown.
Golden brown everywhere, and burnished clean until it glows! As we
leave and make our way homeward through the now darkened lanes of the
village, that long row of windows behind us catches the last light,
and reflects the glow of the evening sky. We are each silent with our
own thoughts.
But now I have to confess that I have not been
quite fair with you while writing this little story. I have used
words like 'is', 'stands', and 'are', and oh how I wish that they
were true! For these words are now lies, and had I been honest with
you, I would have said 'was', 'stood', and 'were'. For this story was
last year's story, and during the past winter, this magical building
was replaced with a modern concrete structure.
I suppose the students are happy in their clean,
bright, not to say warm classrooms. I suppose the insurance company
is happy, secure in the knowledge that this building will not catch
fire one cold night. I suppose the village parents are happy, knowing
that their children have a facility the equal of those in the big
cities.
But if everybody is so happy, then why are my eyes
full of water?