This morning we went to the old school to see some Glen Moore artifacts. That's right-Glen Moore, not Glenmoore. Archivist Sandy Brannan says no one living is quite sure how two words became one. As drenched in history as this area is, and as ardently as some of the locals want to preserve it, much of it has been lost.

Our reason for going to the two-story schoohouse was that Colin is supposed to do a project for his third grade on local history. Colin was nowhere as interested in the local lore of one room schoolhouses and wood stoves as was his mom. I've talked before about my bent for seeing stories and people who either aren't there any longer, or never were there, writ invisibly in old houses and ruined stores. As Sandy Brannan talked about the post office and the mill and the last passenger train (1932) I listened with the intensity of a gourmand awaiting the next course.

I have the hope that if I keep exposing my children to more and more living history tableaux, eventually they will find the same passion-or one like it. Both of the kids did wear their "Wallace" buttons proudly to church-although I'm not at all sure what happened to them after they came home to our little tract of land on Ada Fleming's old farm.