Written by: Tyger
Category: Heritage
Date: 8/14/2006
In the small Swiss community where my parents live stands a squat school house. It is no longer in use, but when I was a child, it contained four classes, crammed into one room, first through forth. I spent three years in that school, with its worn-down wooden floor and the sooty coal heater in the basement. There was a medieval foot-powered harmonium which accompanied our songs and two ancient blackboards, which could be flipped and cranked into position, one for each side of the room. Upstairs, in what once was the teacher's apartment, an old spinster had her residence. She was quiet and kind and enjoyed listening to our strong, young voices.
There was no gymnasium, of course, so our teacher was creative when it came to physical education. An avid hiker and naturalist, as well as a history buff, he took us on long walks through the woods, where we gathered leaves and plants for our botanical lessons, and we learned much about ecology and forestry. Most intriguing, however, were the ancient gravesites he showed us, deep in the woods, in places only the well-initiated knew. They were man-made mounds, where the Celts once buried their dead and supplied them with food, tools, weapons and adornments for their journey into the netherworld.
“Jump up and down and notice how soft the earth is here,” our teacher said. “There are hollows below, where the dead rest.” We were awestruck and slightly wary, but we all tested his theory.
Only the most callous students spoke above a whisper. “Feel right here,” we told each other, or, “I wonder how many are buried here.”
I don’t know that anyone ever dug down into those gravesites, and the spirits of the Celts are most likely still undisturbed, but those expeditions left a colossal impression on me. I still recall the sense of marvel I felt, connecting with a people from such long-ago times, sensing their presence, and wondering about their lives. Standing on those gravesites, I discovered an interest in ancient history, a respectful fascination, which to this day has me in its grips.
The little school house is no longer used for teaching, and the gentle spinster has long since passed away, but the graves of the Celts are still beckoning. I don’t know their location anymore, but perhaps, if I walk in those woods in silence, just by coincidence, I might stumble across a hillside, too soft to be natural. I will jump up and down and notice the elastic recoil of the earth. Then, I will know that I have come home at last.
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