Last winter I took an Anthropologie class to fulfill a science class requirement. At the end of the quarter when the student evaluations were handed out, the teacher asked for a willing student to deliver it to Brown Hall, since she was no longer allowed to handle it for fear of tampering. I'd never been to the Anthropologie Building before, so I raised my hand.
You could tell the building was old from the way it faced the street. Every other edifice was square with the curb, but Brown Hall tilted away from the road at almost a 45 degree angle, possibly because it preexisted the road itself. The front steps were old stone slabs bordered by brick, and beneath the front steps 2 opposite sets of stairs dove beneath the surface, leading to the lower levels. Dried ivy remained on the grey bricks at the corners, and I went in with anticipation to one of the diminishing few old buildings on campus.
I deposited the manila envelope with the secretary of the appropriate office, and I was about to leave when I saw above her desk two newspaper clippings about the building. The first was a fundraiser to help save the building; the second article read a tearing down date, proving the fundraiser had failed. "Are they really going to tear down this building?" I asked the secretary, a frizzy-haired hippy long past her flower power days, but still with the long hair and activist tendencies. We talked about our disappointment for a while, and she told me how the building's basement had an original entrance to OSU's off-limits (and student-coveted) underground steam tunnels, and other various things about the building she loved. Before I left I made sure to check the basement to try and get a glimpse of where the steam tunnels might begin. Going back to the first floor, I remember grasping the wide walnut banister wistfully, the wood chipped from use and smooth from age.
The first thing they did was take out the windows.
Whenever I would walk past Brown Hall I would glance over and see what its status was, hoping that maybe someone would change their mind. But a chainlink fence began to grow on the grass like a disease. And last month I was startled and sad to see all the old glass windows replaced overnight by crude plastic sheets. Walking to Biology today, I was startled again when I looked up from the sidewalk to see a corner of the building shattered to bricks and pieces, reduced to rubble.
It was strange to see inside; I could see inside both main floors and the interior of the attic. The roof had so far maintained most of its integrity, and it sat like an awkward cap on the empty gouge of space. The corner classroom on the second story was completely gone, and you could see the thick layer of bricks that had supported the floor. The two adjacent classrooms were cracked like eggs; the one to the left still had 3 chalkboards hanging on the walls, awaiting destruction. The other had a corkboard with a piece of paper still pinned to it. A silvery insulation pipe hung limp and jagged from the attic, like a severed nerve. The last piece of the west wall went up at an awkward angle, much like a diagonal line on an Etch-A-Sketch, with the last window frame on the first floor within still fully intact. A backhoe was perched on the mountain of rubble, idling; a small pipe had broken next to it and was spraying freezing water over the scene.
There were so many bricks, such an enormous number of bricks for only a portion of the corner of the building. A hundred years ago there had been a plan, a blueprint, a large team of workers sweating and straining and building Brown Hall. As shovels were driven, these bricks were carted to erect a place for learning; they had a purpose and a design. But that time has passed. A man with a calculator figured out it would be more efficient to invest in a new building rather than maintain upkeep on this old one. And the bricks so carefully laid, the drywall so painstakingly placed, the chalkboards so deliberately hung, are being torn down to make way for something more efficient. The plans have changed.
How many buildings has man designed and and built only to tear down and rebuild 50 years later? How many cities have risen up in prosperity only to be a slum within the century? How many empires on the face of this earth have risen up with crowns of gold and immortal wishes only to fade away once enough years and winds have passed over their decaying edifices? Great and old Venice is sinking and Brown Hall is being torn down.
The reality of Ecclesiastes hit me like a wrecking ball.
All of this life, all of it, is so temporary.
You could tell the building was old from the way it faced the street. Every other edifice was square with the curb, but Brown Hall tilted away from the road at almost a 45 degree angle, possibly because it preexisted the road itself. The front steps were old stone slabs bordered by brick, and beneath the front steps 2 opposite sets of stairs dove beneath the surface, leading to the lower levels. Dried ivy remained on the grey bricks at the corners, and I went in with anticipation to one of the diminishing few old buildings on campus.
I deposited the manila envelope with the secretary of the appropriate office, and I was about to leave when I saw above her desk two newspaper clippings about the building. The first was a fundraiser to help save the building; the second article read a tearing down date, proving the fundraiser had failed. "Are they really going to tear down this building?" I asked the secretary, a frizzy-haired hippy long past her flower power days, but still with the long hair and activist tendencies. We talked about our disappointment for a while, and she told me how the building's basement had an original entrance to OSU's off-limits (and student-coveted) underground steam tunnels, and other various things about the building she loved. Before I left I made sure to check the basement to try and get a glimpse of where the steam tunnels might begin. Going back to the first floor, I remember grasping the wide walnut banister wistfully, the wood chipped from use and smooth from age.
The first thing they did was take out the windows.
Whenever I would walk past Brown Hall I would glance over and see what its status was, hoping that maybe someone would change their mind. But a chainlink fence began to grow on the grass like a disease. And last month I was startled and sad to see all the old glass windows replaced overnight by crude plastic sheets. Walking to Biology today, I was startled again when I looked up from the sidewalk to see a corner of the building shattered to bricks and pieces, reduced to rubble.
It was strange to see inside; I could see inside both main floors and the interior of the attic. The roof had so far maintained most of its integrity, and it sat like an awkward cap on the empty gouge of space. The corner classroom on the second story was completely gone, and you could see the thick layer of bricks that had supported the floor. The two adjacent classrooms were cracked like eggs; the one to the left still had 3 chalkboards hanging on the walls, awaiting destruction. The other had a corkboard with a piece of paper still pinned to it. A silvery insulation pipe hung limp and jagged from the attic, like a severed nerve. The last piece of the west wall went up at an awkward angle, much like a diagonal line on an Etch-A-Sketch, with the last window frame on the first floor within still fully intact. A backhoe was perched on the mountain of rubble, idling; a small pipe had broken next to it and was spraying freezing water over the scene.
There were so many bricks, such an enormous number of bricks for only a portion of the corner of the building. A hundred years ago there had been a plan, a blueprint, a large team of workers sweating and straining and building Brown Hall. As shovels were driven, these bricks were carted to erect a place for learning; they had a purpose and a design. But that time has passed. A man with a calculator figured out it would be more efficient to invest in a new building rather than maintain upkeep on this old one. And the bricks so carefully laid, the drywall so painstakingly placed, the chalkboards so deliberately hung, are being torn down to make way for something more efficient. The plans have changed.
How many buildings has man designed and and built only to tear down and rebuild 50 years later? How many cities have risen up in prosperity only to be a slum within the century? How many empires on the face of this earth have risen up with crowns of gold and immortal wishes only to fade away once enough years and winds have passed over their decaying edifices? Great and old Venice is sinking and Brown Hall is being torn down.
The reality of Ecclesiastes hit me like a wrecking ball.
All of this life, all of it, is so temporary.
Comments
The idea of tearing down old buildings is a bit baffling to me-- I dwell on a campus where the older something is, the more they glorify it (and sadly, the less often to they clean the bathrooms.) But you evoked the destruction of this quirky monument so well that I can imagine it as one of my own halls, being torn down long before its charm and usefulness has expired.
Out of curiosity, what's led to the sudden blogging marathon?
Hello to Dave for me. :)