A Doomed School Chato B. Stewart ©11/21/06 I was there the day they took down the school of my youth. It was an cold damp overcast day on that Massachusetts coast. The sound of heavy equipment filled the air. As the wrecking ball demolished the building I could hear the whispers of the past echoing as each brick fell. It was the end of an era, the day the school was torn down. Yet no one was there, no one to protest, or no one cry for him. The school was dead, poisoned by years of neglect and red tape. The last years of it life had no tenants, no children’s laughter in his halls. He was and empty shell fit for rats, bats, and refuse. He died in with out dignity and his name sake stood till the last blow. It was time for progress, time for a change. Yet, as I stood there, watch the swinging of the wrecking ball, I felt pain in my heart for the loss of all the memories. Here was a part of my history, a part of my identity being demolished. Who would tell his story, who would keep his memories alive. Yet here I stand, just watching, saying good bye not to the building but experiences lost, all the untold stories all the laughter and all the sorrow. As I watch the bulldozer take down the last identifying mark of the school I knew it was over, time to go. Time to say good bye.

This was the Sonet that inspired the Lincoln story and this website. I say Sonet because it is written loosely in that poetic style. I call it that too because most guys would not be caught dead reading poetry. This way they can say "I read the Sonet" and not sound like a sissy.