In the small Swiss community where my parents live stands a squat school house. It is no longer in use, but when I was a child, it contained four classes, crammed into one room, first through forth. I spent three years in that school, with its worn wooden floor and the sooty coal heater in the basement. A medieval foot-powered harmonium accompanied our songs and two ancient blackboards flipped and cranked into position, one for each side of the room. Upstairs, in what once was the teacher's apartment, lived an old spinster. She was quiet and kind and enjoyed listening to our strong, young voices.
We did not have a gymnasium, so our teacher got creative with our physical education. An avid hiker and naturalist as well as a history buff, he took us on long walks through the woods, where we gathered leaves and plants for our botanical lessons, and we learned much about ecology and forestry. Most intriguing, however, were the ancient gravesites he showed us, deep in the woods, in places only the well-initiated knew. They were man-made mounds, where the Celts once buried their dead and supplied them with food, tools, weapons and adornments for their journey into the netherworld.
"Jump up and down and notice how soft the earth is here," our teacher said. "There are hollows below, where the dead rest." Awestruck and slightly wary, we all tested his theory.
Only the most callous students spoke above a whisper. "Feel right here," we told each other, or, "I wonder how many are buried here."
I don't know that anyone ever dug down into those gravesites, and the spirits of the Celts most likely still rest undisturbed, but those expeditions left a colossal impression on me. I still recall the sense of marvel I felt, to be able to connect with a people from such long-ago times, sense their presence, and wonder about their lives. On those gravesites, I discovered an interest in ancient history, a respectful fascination, which to this day has me in its grips.
The little school house is no longer used for teaching and the gentle spinster has long since passed away, but the graves of the Celts still beckon. I don't know their location anymore but perhaps, if I walk in those woods in silence, just by coincidence, I'll stumble across a hillside too soft to be natural. I will jump up and down and notice the elastic recoil of the earth. Then, I will know that I have come home at last.
(Original version published by Swissroots in 2006 )
We did not have a gymnasium, so our teacher got creative with our physical education. An avid hiker and naturalist as well as a history buff, he took us on long walks through the woods, where we gathered leaves and plants for our botanical lessons, and we learned much about ecology and forestry. Most intriguing, however, were the ancient gravesites he showed us, deep in the woods, in places only the well-initiated knew. They were man-made mounds, where the Celts once buried their dead and supplied them with food, tools, weapons and adornments for their journey into the netherworld.
"Jump up and down and notice how soft the earth is here," our teacher said. "There are hollows below, where the dead rest." Awestruck and slightly wary, we all tested his theory.
Only the most callous students spoke above a whisper. "Feel right here," we told each other, or, "I wonder how many are buried here."
I don't know that anyone ever dug down into those gravesites, and the spirits of the Celts most likely still rest undisturbed, but those expeditions left a colossal impression on me. I still recall the sense of marvel I felt, to be able to connect with a people from such long-ago times, sense their presence, and wonder about their lives. On those gravesites, I discovered an interest in ancient history, a respectful fascination, which to this day has me in its grips.
The little school house is no longer used for teaching and the gentle spinster has long since passed away, but the graves of the Celts still beckon. I don't know their location anymore but perhaps, if I walk in those woods in silence, just by coincidence, I'll stumble across a hillside too soft to be natural. I will jump up and down and notice the elastic recoil of the earth. Then, I will know that I have come home at last.
(Original version published by Swissroots in 2006 )