A few days after I graduated first grade, my parents uprooted our entire family and moved us out West. I traded clam chowdAH for barbecue, rolling waves for endless plains, and soda for pop. The cultural whiplash took awhile to recover from, but once I realized ya’ll was essentially the same as youz-guys–I got along just fine.

While living in Kansas, I remember going on lots of fields trips–this was back before schools had to worry about all that liability. Heck, all you needed was a signed permission slip and you could feed tigers at the zoo or take an inflatable raft down some wicked rapids.

Whether we were feeding giant felines or navigating treacherous waters, my favorite part was personalizing my bagged lunch. My mom would always pack my favorite cuisine: a bag of Doritos–nacho -flavored not cool ranch, a can of spray cheese–yellow not white, and a can of pop–Fresca to be specific. Now, I’d like to believe that my tastes have matured since fourth grade… but to be completely honest–I still curl up on the sofa with nacho-flavored corn chips and a can of spray-cheese every once-in-awhile.

Of all the field trips of my youth–museums, historical landmarks, aquariums, and tours–there was a single excursion that continues to resonate with me. Even seventeen years later, I still recall the day that my fourth grade class visited a one-room schoolhouse on the open prairie.

From the moment we stepped off the bus, we were transported back in time. The teacher stood in front of the schoolhouse with a grim expression. As a nine year old, I imagined this strangely-dressed woman had perhaps fastened her hair a little too tight–pulling the skin taught across her face and removing every trace of emotion. To be honest, this lady was downright terrifying.

 With a little coaxing from our real teacher, we followed this lady into the schoolhouse. Our shoes shuffled across the splintered hardwood floor as we took our seats at the antique desks. Our pretend teacher wasted no time in conducting a geography lesson at the front of the room. With every point, she stabbed the chalkboard with a long wooden pointer. I still remember one of my classmates speaking out of turn. The teacher just about splintered that pointer off my classmate’s desk. After that, the rest of us shut-up real quick and stayed shut-up until the pretend teacher called on us.

When the time came for lunch, we all ventured outside. The schoolhouse was surrounded by fields in every direction–adding authenticity to the entire experience. I still remember the oil wells oscillating in the distance as I squirted spray-cheese on my Doritos. For a short time, our pretend teacher dropped the act–smiling for the first time since we arrived at the schoolhouse. She took some time to demonstrate the games that children would have played in the schoolyard during recess–including Red Rover.

Seventeen-years later, I still blame that field-trip for sparking my obsession with old schoolhouses. A few months ago, I had this far-fetched idea of designing brochures and mailing them out to local schoolhouses in an attempt to acquire permissions–most were converted to single-family homes back in the 1950s. That idea got placed on hold, because now I finally have my very own schoolhouse permission. This opportunity has been a dream of mine since I first picked up a detector last year. The treasure is reliving my day at the schoolhouse in Kansas, but finding a little lead figurine and a silver-plated spoon is just the icing on the cake….

This lead figure may not look like much–with his missing arm and faded paint–but this is my treasure from the schoolhouse. The events leading up to his abandonment are so vivid in my mind. I picture this small child with unkempt hair, hand-me-down clothes, and shabby shoes. This little boy is standing on the outskirts of the schoolyard, fishing this little character out of his pocket during recess. How he was lost, I may never know– but I can almost sense his sadness after realizing that his toy is gone. This ugly lead man had been this little boy’s treasure and now he is mine.

Who knows? It could have even been one of the little guys in this old photograph of the same schoolhouse…