Read time: 6 min.

I was eight years old when I first saw it, a brick belfry jutting out from the middle of a cornfield. We were on our way to a family reunion in rural Fairmount, packed in our seven-person conversion van. The belfry disappeared in an instant as we sped past. I wanted to ask about its origin, but my questions were drowned out by the noise of the highway. 

I don’t think anyone else in the van noticed the abandoned steeple, but it felt like it was meant for me to see. Even at that young age, I understood the significance of the weather-beaten belfry, long missing its bell, with shingles gone and windows shattered. I felt a deep connection to the site. I, too, felt abandoned and forgotten. 

My family was new. My mom remarried when I was seven, and blending our groups was tough for everyone. Unfortunately, it was especially miserable for me. I faced relentless cruelty from my new siblings. At school, I was taunted for my speech impediment and my obscure interests. My dad even tormented me during our biweekly visits! I was sensitive, for sure, but nowhere felt safe. 

I was too young to fight back, and my complaints came across as too aggressive. More often than not, I was the one punished while the true aggressors stood back and laughed! That hurt, but it stung even more when I became known as the squeaky wheel, the boy who cried wolf. Second grade was hell, and I desperately longed for someone to notice me; to really see what I was going through. Hoping for a savior, I acted out. When I saw that abandoned belfry as we roared past, I felt a sense of sorely-needed solidarity. 

Unfortunately, I never saw the tower in the corn ever again. Over the next decade, I wondered if I’d conjured it up in a dream! I later realized that I’d seen it at the perfect time. Its work was done, so it went away.

That didn’t stop me from trying to find it, though. The tower was my white whale! Once I grew up and got a car of my own, I bought a map and charted out every road from Muncie to Fairmount. It didn’t make sense for my thrifty stepdad to have driven some of the more obscure routes, but I took all of them just in case.

I never stopped searching. Eventually, I chose a college up north, drawn by the chance to explore the countryside between Muncie and Fort Wayne. Exploring those rolling fields and forests ignited my passion for local history! Then, one day, while taking a new route through Pennville, I saw it. I couldn’t believe my eyes! Rising from the cornfields was the same steeple I’d stumbled upon years ago! Rediscovering it felt like reuniting with a long-lost friend. 

I was thirty miles from where I’d remembered it, but the tower was unmistakable. I was in disbelief! I pulled off the highway and got out for a better look. A block and cornerstone identified the crumbling structure as Oak Grove School, built in 1913 during George Philebaum’s tenure as township trustee. Collapsing concrete steps led to an entrance under the tower, and I peered inside. I hadn’t noticed it before, but the building featured a large classroom, transformed into a flowering field by the passage of time, along with two smaller alcoves I imagined had once been used as cloakrooms. 

Later, I learned that Oak Grove was the finest of Knox Township’s seven schoolhouses. Unfortunately, it closed after the 1939-40 school term. The students of Oak Grove were sent to a consolidated institution in nearby Pennville the following year and the school was repurposed as a corn crib. Over time, its roof caved in and its walls tumbled down.  

Despite that, years of neglect melted away as I pictured the building’s layout in my mind. I saw how grand the old schoolhouse was in its heyday- it’d been so much more than just a belfry! Stopping and peeking inside took little effort, but seeing the building up close transported me back to my struggles as a kid. I’d longed for someone -anyone- to take the time to understand me and see what was causing my anguish. Just as I was experiencing the rest of Oak Grove, I’d wanted to be seen as a whole person, not just someone who stuck out like a tower rising from the corn.

I only lingered at the ruins for a few minutes, but they soon became a landmark on my weekly trips home. Then I was diagnosed with Bipolar II disorder and my life turned into a fog. Sometimes, I felt suicidal. During the darkest days, trips past the schoolhouse reminded me that if it could stand for a hundred years of abuse and neglect, I could at least make it thirty, fifty, or sixty. Reconnecting with the schoolhouse buoyed me through some of my most challenging times. 

It’s been twenty-five years since I first spied the old Oak Grove Schoolhouse and another fifteen since I rediscovered it. Life has been a challenge, but I’m on better footing than ever as I’ve coped with changes, discovered resiliency, and outlived some of my tormentors. I occasionally pass the ruined school today, but I connect with its tower for a different reason. Although it’s been irreversibly altered by time, the architect’s intent is still intact. There’s even a heightened sense of beauty in its abandoned state! 

I, too, have been changed by a turbulent life, but none of it was enough to change the Architect’s intent. A part of me is still who I was always meant to be, and maybe some positive things resulted from my childhood struggles. I’m still working on identifying them, and I think it will take the rest of my life.

Racking my brain now, I have no idea why my entire family would have driven past the old Oak Grove schoolhouse on Highway 1 twenty-five years ago. It certainly wasn’t because of a family reunion! Regardless of the reason, the building became a lifelong friend and lodestar, guiding me and teaching me more than I ever knew about myself. I’ve been to other schools named Oak Grove in three other counties, but the original’s steadfast presence has been a source of comfort and inspiration. It reminds me of my own resilience.