fate of the friendly church
Maybe someone was weeping in 1907, they made the mistake of imagining a future fading too soon. We all make our mark on memories, bound to be a part of someone else's history. I learn through pieces of the past slowly sifting down, stories in signatures and scattered surnames of long-lost strangers. Ronald Morse and George Gordon wrote their initials on a beam in the crawlspace, 1948 – the year they painted the church. They were members of families who went here for decades, with the Armstrongs, Newcombes, Mannings, and Zwickers too. Countless weddings were held within these walls, and the last was the Vrooms in 1992. I wonder if Carl and Angela know their significance, a happily ever after to close the last chapter. I've never seen any pictures of this church in her heyday, and I'm beginning to believe that none exist. Maybe this is the closest I'll get to a latter-day portrait, of a classy old lady cloaked in mist, and what some preacher might have called treasures of the snow. I know your time is short, so I've promised to visit every chance I get.
fate of the friendly church
Maybe someone was weeping in 1907, they made the mistake of imagining a future fading too soon. We all make our mark on memories, bound to be a part of someone else's history. I learn through pieces of the past slowly sifting down, stories in signatures and scattered surnames of long-lost strangers. Ronald Morse and George Gordon wrote their initials on a beam in the crawlspace, 1948 – the year they painted the church. They were members of families who went here for decades, with the Armstrongs, Newcombes, Mannings, and Zwickers too. Countless weddings were held within these walls, and the last was the Vrooms in 1992. I wonder if Carl and Angela know their significance, a happily ever after to close the last chapter. I've never seen any pictures of this church in her heyday, and I'm beginning to believe that none exist. Maybe this is the closest I'll get to a latter-day portrait, of a classy old lady cloaked in mist, and what some preacher might have called treasures of the snow. I know your time is short, so I've promised to visit every chance I get.