My old high school in Center Point, Iowa was demolished yesterday. It was a grand and glorious building—constructed the same year the Wright brothers flew at Kitty Hawk, and the Ford Motor Company sold its first car—1903. Old, yes, and some would argue the building was a drafty old fire trap that had outlived its usefulness.

But it had character.
If buildings were people—living, breathing entities, then this old girl was a grand duchess. Or a queen, since she was designed during the Victorian era. She had strength, style and spirit. She raised many generations. Children, their parents, grandparents and even great-grandparents all grew up within those old brick walls.

I could conjure up hundreds of memories of my own years spent there. Like the time my hand went though one of the original glass windows, in the door of Mrs. Conner’s college-bound English classroom. As seniors, we ate during C-Lunch, the last lunch of the day—and starving, we would race all the way to the lunch room. In a rush one day, Bill Mullins shut the classroom door to get downstairs, and I tried to stop the door. My left hand shattered the window and a large piece of glass rested between my thumb and forefinger… I bled all the way to the nurse’s office, and apparently I bled all over the principal's shirt, after passing out while waiting for the nurse to arrive. When I came to, I was lying on a cot in the nurse's office—Mrs. Pepin was on the phone with my mom. When she told my mom what happened, Mrs. Pepin pulled the receiver from her ear and I could hear my mother laughing... Later, someone with a great sense of humor (probably Mr. Dickes), put up a handmade sign: “Paul Marlow Memorial Door.” I still have scars from the 9 stitches.

There was vocal music rehearsal in Mrs. Holden’s room, in the basement next to the dank and mysterious teacher’s lounge with the cool old Pepsi machine. Everyone liked Mr. Dickes’ Jr High science room, up on the third floor. We would learn the periodic tables and listen to the Beatles or the Beach Boys on Mr. Dickes’ reel-to-reel tape player, punctuated by the occasional meter stick slap on the table if we got too noisy. There were the discussions of current events in Mr. Dillon’s government class, algebra and geometry in Mr. Margretz’ room, both on the first floor. I can still see Corky Kramer through the fish bowl-like window of the main office, a tiny-but-mighty figure behind her secretary's desk.

Center Point, Iowa had the only school I know where every day, as seniors, we would walk by the room we attended kindergarten, or say “hi” to Mrs. Schaffer, our first grade teacher, who also was our high school play director. Growing up with that kind of continuity—and community—is priceless.

Today, Center Point-Urbana High School has a beautiful new facility on the west edge of town. It has all of the amenities and safety features of any modern high school. For decades, bond issues to build it were tried and failed—eventually the new school was paid for by proceeds from a 1 percent sales tax. Though it has factory-like design features, the new high school is stunning. But it lacks the character of the old brick building.

Whether you were a student there, or you worked as faculty or staff there, Center Point Consolidated — 'Public School 1903' was our alma mater—our ‘old mother’. 
And I must admit that it makes me sad to see her go.