A place that has a piece of my heart

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Image from www.city-data.com

 This afternoon while driving home from a friend's house, I noticed an old building I'd never noticed before. It was small, square, and made of red brick. Engraved in white stone on the front of the building were the words, "School house no. 22."

Probably because I haven't seen sunshine for about ten days, I felt a little crusty about seeing that old school house. Ugh, I actually thought. I wish they'd just tear it down. Now, I'm all for the charm of history, but it seems like every place I turn in this old town there is an historic building that has been "preserved." That's when my more utilitarian side takes over and thinks, maybe we should tear down the old building that has ceased to be useful and build something practical (like, oh, I don't know, another lane for the road so we don't sit at this very busy traffic light for ten minutes).Like I said, I haven't seen the sunshine for a long time. Maybe I need to sit under sunlamp for a spell so I can think nicer things.

In any case, karma, or the heavens, or whatever you want to call it, has taught me a bit of a lesson today. My beloved Provo Tabernacle, a place where I have spent countless hours in Stake Conference and Christmas concerts, the place where I graduated from LDS Seminary, burned down last night. I feel heartbroken that such a beautiful and significant landmark is gone.

Image from www.ajc.com/news/nation-world/fire-damages-historic-provo
 As I've watched the news footage of the fire and read  people's reactions to the tragedy, I've felt chagrined at my attitude--just today, mind you--about the old red school house. I am not from here, this town where I live; consequently, its landmarks and historical buildings do not (yet) hold any special significance for me. But when I think of them in context of how I feel about the Provo Tabernacle, I understand a little better about why they've been preserved.

We attach meaning and significance not only the people and events of our lives, but the places where they've occurred. The moment passes but the place remains, holding with it bits and fragments of our memory, which, joined with the collective group, becomes our place of safety, our place of identity. When those places are gone, a little part of our past goes with them.

Maybe we don't need to hold on to every scrap of the past; certainly not everything that is old is therefore good, but there are some places that preserve our memories and thereby make us better. This was my Provo Tabernacle, a part of Provo that I loved.

Comments

Anaise said…
Oh my goodness! That doesn't even seem possible.

How very sad.
December 18, 2010 at 9:32 AM
Steffani said…
We are sick! I thought of you yesterday and new you'd be sad, too. We drove down twice and watched it. Even at 12:00 and at 3:00 it was still burning. It was unreal to see. The doorway was full of collapsed bricks and pieces of the ceiling. The first person the news interviewed in the darkness of the 6:00 a.m. hour was Pres. Bacon. He had run down that morning and was there when the roof collapsed. He was looked devastated and I couldn't help but think that he was our Stake President when we would have Stake Conferences there. I just hate to see all of this gone. Tragic. Steffani
December 18, 2010 at 10:45 AM
jaimey said…
One of the first things I did when I heard about this was check your blog. I knew you would have written about it and been heartbroken, as am I. So tragic and surreal. I have so many fond memories of that place . . . which now, I'm even more grateful for. I can hardly believe it.
December 30, 2010 at 12:04 AM
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