James and I ride the tag-a-long bike through town today. We cycle down through the historic district, past Roosevelt Elementary where they have just chopped down the hundred-year-old silver maples that lined the entire block.
I fought hard to save the school from being shuttered. After a long persistent battle, we were told our school would be demolished and rebuilt. It’s bricks, circa 1911, are supposedly crumbling. We were evacuated two years ago because of the extreme risk. This has since proved to be a lot of hog slop. The Medford School District is going to demolish what I think is a charming old building anyway.
I am a nooks and crannies kind of gal. I like wood windows, clanking radiators, mysterious basements, brass door knobs with beautiful detail, velvet curtains on a deep stage, and stairs that lead up Stage Right and Stage Left to secret rooms, long forgotten by anyone but a handful of PTO presidents and Duane the janitor. Duane likes to hide out in the one overlooking the treetops of Queen Anne. I have snuck up there myself before just to gaze out through the original glass, all warped and bubbly, at the bare branches in winter. It is quiet and remote, peaceful. It’s a place where you can be alone with your thoughts--a commodity rarer than the Hope Diamond. I often wondered if they’d let me rent the space in summer as a studio.
There is so much to love about this building, but you have to be one of those people that like old buildings. We are rare in Medford. I am a romantic. I have never chosen the practical route. In fact I drive linear people insane. I’m the kind of person that doesn’t mind getting lost, it just means there will be more adventure, something unexpected to discover. I am the kind of person that thinks the two-storey arched and mullioned windows are breathtaking. I know that thousands of little kids have felt the same. Every day they would struggle mightily to earn the privilege of reading in the window seats on the landings.
I didn’t care about all the weird levels and bizarre additions that were made over the years. I thought it was interesting and fun. My kids liked it too. So did others. You could tell by the way they owned the space. They were comfortable in their environment. There was no hindrance to their ability to learn, not from the building anyway. Classroom size and No Child Left Behind--now that’s another story.
No one in our neighborhood really believes the district will rebuild our “walking” school. We are sure, now that they’ve passed the bond, rebuilt in the wealthier neighborhoods, and established a budget for the new high school, that they will magically run out of money. We will be left with dead rose bushes, silver maple stumps, and a vandalized building. Our children will be bussed to even more crowded classrooms.
Today though, while riding back home, I came a different direction, and saw the giant dumpster pulled up to the back. Men in white t-shirts, jeans, and gloves looked up as I passed. An upstairs window was covered in plastic where a hole has been poked for a giant vacuum tube. I can only assume they are beginning the very expensive process of asbestos removal.
For one hundred years the people of this neighborhood have walked to Roosevelt greeting neighbors and dogs, checking the blue jay’s nest in the climbing rosebush on the corner, watching their children run to catch up with a friend a few yards ahead of them. As kids got a little older it felt safe to send them out the door alone, knowing that everyone on the block knew them, and they could have a small semblance of freedom and independence in an overly protective world.
I rolled by the school, my eyes running over the length of the building. I started to pedal faster. I don’t want to be here when those windows shatter. Glass like rain, it won’t matter to most.
As much as I want to keep a school in my neighborhood, I feel like I have betrayed this old girl. Her brasses have already been stripped. Her wide halls, banisters, woodfloors, mullions and radiators will be bulldozed, wreaking-balled and sledged to death. Yes, we will have some kind of new school, but we will never have another school like this one, and it certainly will not last 100 years.
I feel like I have had to put a good dog down.
I fought hard to save the school from being shuttered. After a long persistent battle, we were told our school would be demolished and rebuilt. It’s bricks, circa 1911, are supposedly crumbling. We were evacuated two years ago because of the extreme risk. This has since proved to be a lot of hog slop. The Medford School District is going to demolish what I think is a charming old building anyway.
I am a nooks and crannies kind of gal. I like wood windows, clanking radiators, mysterious basements, brass door knobs with beautiful detail, velvet curtains on a deep stage, and stairs that lead up Stage Right and Stage Left to secret rooms, long forgotten by anyone but a handful of PTO presidents and Duane the janitor. Duane likes to hide out in the one overlooking the treetops of Queen Anne. I have snuck up there myself before just to gaze out through the original glass, all warped and bubbly, at the bare branches in winter. It is quiet and remote, peaceful. It’s a place where you can be alone with your thoughts--a commodity rarer than the Hope Diamond. I often wondered if they’d let me rent the space in summer as a studio.
There is so much to love about this building, but you have to be one of those people that like old buildings. We are rare in Medford. I am a romantic. I have never chosen the practical route. In fact I drive linear people insane. I’m the kind of person that doesn’t mind getting lost, it just means there will be more adventure, something unexpected to discover. I am the kind of person that thinks the two-storey arched and mullioned windows are breathtaking. I know that thousands of little kids have felt the same. Every day they would struggle mightily to earn the privilege of reading in the window seats on the landings.
I didn’t care about all the weird levels and bizarre additions that were made over the years. I thought it was interesting and fun. My kids liked it too. So did others. You could tell by the way they owned the space. They were comfortable in their environment. There was no hindrance to their ability to learn, not from the building anyway. Classroom size and No Child Left Behind--now that’s another story.
No one in our neighborhood really believes the district will rebuild our “walking” school. We are sure, now that they’ve passed the bond, rebuilt in the wealthier neighborhoods, and established a budget for the new high school, that they will magically run out of money. We will be left with dead rose bushes, silver maple stumps, and a vandalized building. Our children will be bussed to even more crowded classrooms.
Today though, while riding back home, I came a different direction, and saw the giant dumpster pulled up to the back. Men in white t-shirts, jeans, and gloves looked up as I passed. An upstairs window was covered in plastic where a hole has been poked for a giant vacuum tube. I can only assume they are beginning the very expensive process of asbestos removal.
For one hundred years the people of this neighborhood have walked to Roosevelt greeting neighbors and dogs, checking the blue jay’s nest in the climbing rosebush on the corner, watching their children run to catch up with a friend a few yards ahead of them. As kids got a little older it felt safe to send them out the door alone, knowing that everyone on the block knew them, and they could have a small semblance of freedom and independence in an overly protective world.
I rolled by the school, my eyes running over the length of the building. I started to pedal faster. I don’t want to be here when those windows shatter. Glass like rain, it won’t matter to most.
As much as I want to keep a school in my neighborhood, I feel like I have betrayed this old girl. Her brasses have already been stripped. Her wide halls, banisters, woodfloors, mullions and radiators will be bulldozed, wreaking-balled and sledged to death. Yes, we will have some kind of new school, but we will never have another school like this one, and it certainly will not last 100 years.
I feel like I have had to put a good dog down.
