THE OLD SCHOOL BELL

Fifty, perhaps sixty years ago my grandmother gave me an old school bell like Laura Ingalls Wilder might have used to summon her students back into the classroom after recess. I’m sure I once knew where she got the bell, but, if so, I have long since forgotten.

I loved and treasured that bell for decades, and often picked it up, and admired its weathered steel lower, and its walnut toned handle. And it was impossible to examine it without also giving it a little “ding a ling” in order to recreate the same peal of vibrant sound by which some teacher’s students, now long since gone, were summoned in the 19^th century.

I have been thinking a great deal about that bell lately. You see, I have no idea where it is at this moment. I mean I have racked my brain to recall where it is, or to whom I gave it. And I honestly don’t have a clue. And I am the poorer for it.

I almost feel like I have betrayed my grandmother since she obviously valued it, and expected to pass it on to her oldest grandchild, and subsequently did so. Of course, I am all too aware that it still exists. It certainly has not spontaneously dematerialized from the earth.

I have often thought about some of my own things which have passed through my hands through the years.

A New York City policeman’s badge. A large red flint arrowhead, a medicine vial containing my tonsils, (yes, my tonsils), an old report card featuring my favorite teacher’s handwritten scrawl on the back.

And I have often wondered where the stuff of past generations resides today.

The cane upon which my great grandfather leans in an old black and white photograph. A broach which once adorned the neck of a great aunt. The CSA uniform of a long since departed uncle; who fought in that great conflagration which was the American Civil War.



Where ever my grandmother’s bell happens to be, I hope its owner has some grasp of its rich history, and every now and then gives it a little “ding a ling.”

By William McDonald, PhD. Copyright pending

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