May 18, 1998

Features

Where time stands still

oscar

Photo by Oscar Roloff

These rickety stairs lead to upstairs. Was it a bedroom, an attic?

  by Oscar Roloff



   Such scenes you'll see herein are rare and will fast fade away. As I walked alone taking photos, I knew that eventually Mother Nature will have her way. With her will be Father Time who is the doomsayer of all that is built. We have come from the soil and will return to the same.
  
   While cautiously walking about this rare scene, I was careful of step. I entered not the aged structures. For one thing, it would be dangerous to do so. I peered through a partly open door to see much oldness in material therein. To one side of the building I saw sagging steps leading to the upper deck. This might have been a bedroom, a storage room. Hard to tell. Too many years have passed. I learned I must walk with care lest a section collapsed.
  
   I saw several figures carved out of wood. May be of Indian background. One was under a tree, all alone. Standing out in full glory. Beautiful carving. I saw an old many 'holed' milk can near the corner of a building. Then saw an old fruit jar that appeared to have not been cleaned or moved in many years. Old windows sag and are stained many a color of age. Interesting.
  
   Thus I leave my photos for you to observe and try to see your own past as I do mine herein. Oh yes, I see some of my roots there. For me it has been a long time since I have stumbled on such a finding. I moved not a thing. I was alone. I'm really lucky to find these old scenes of yesteryear. They won't be around much longer. I won't tell anyone where this site is. It is my own find. Over the years I've scoured the rural land. This is the only one such scene left. While preserving this yesterday's rare past, I hope younger people can take time aside to peer at what once was.
  
   To my gentle readers
   The type of story I've written over the years is often sad to write. Yet I feel I must, and it's my duty to write how I feel about those I seek out. In a way it's a spirit that speaks through me. I don't desire to alter my thoughts for fear of what others may say. I feel I'm writing for all of the people who can't write. When I write, it's between me and the page. What happens later is secondary. If I can bring joy or a tear to an eye, then I have done my duty. First though you must remember I'm the first to break down and that's when I'm writing the article.