"What Once Stood" (Text & Image Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
“Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.” – Thomas Jefferson (attributed)
Since moving to the Northwoods, I’ve often found myself drawn to the quiet symbols scattered across the land—ancient trees, forgotten fence lines, and weathered buildings tucked beneath wide skies. One such building caught my eye years ago. I’d pass it now and then, standing solemnly along a back road like a sentinel of forgotten time. It leaned slightly, wore its years like a weary pilgrim, and bore a green roof that once must have gleamed with purpose. A schoolhouse? A church? A town hall? I never learned for sure. In time, the roof sank, the walls buckled, and the structure collapsed under its own weight. And now, since this photo was taken, it’s gone—cleared away as if it had never been.
Is this not a metaphor for history?
What happens to the structures—physical and institutional—when we fail to care, to remember, to ask questions? When we let them erode unnoticed, only to realize their importance after they’re gone?
We often hear the old warning: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” And yet, we seem to be testing that truth with an almost reckless defiance.
I tried to find out what this building once was. Surely someone must have known. Surely it served a purpose—housed gatherings, educated children, hosted weddings, funerals, dances, decisions. And yet my search yielded nothing. Perhaps I didn’t dig deep enough. Or perhaps we’ve already allowed the memory to vanish.
And that is what frightens me.
In a time where ignorance is not just tolerated but weaponized—where libraries are shuttered, teachers threatened, history revised—I look at this image and see more than wood and ruin. I see democracy teetering. I see truth buckling beneath propaganda. I see our republic sagging under the strain of apathy and deceit.
There are forces at play now that echo the darkest chapters of human history. I do not say this lightly. Billionaires who wield power without wisdom. Politicians who parrot conspiracy and suppress truth. ICE raids in the dead of night. Human beings—neighbors—seized without due process. Laws twisted. Truth buried. Fear normalized.
This is how fascism grows—not with a sudden explosion, but with the quiet collapse of what once stood.
But here is what I believe with all my heart: those of us who care are the majority. Those of us who believe in dignity, decency, truth, compassion, and democracy—we are not few. We are many. And while fear isolates, truth connects. We must stay united, resolute, and courageous. We must speak out, vote, show up, and support one another. Evil thrives in silence and division—but it falters in the face of determined, unified resistance.
If the ruins are gone now, perhaps that too is a message. Not everything that falls must be forgotten. Some things must be rebuilt—with care, with memory, with intention.
History warns us. But it also invites us to become its stewards.
Let this image be more than a symbol of loss. Let it be a call to vigilance, to curiosity, to courage. Let us remember what once stood—not just buildings, but values. And let us become the builders of what must now rise.
~Wylddane
Since moving to the Northwoods, I’ve often found myself drawn to the quiet symbols scattered across the land—ancient trees, forgotten fence lines, and weathered buildings tucked beneath wide skies. One such building caught my eye years ago. I’d pass it now and then, standing solemnly along a back road like a sentinel of forgotten time. It leaned slightly, wore its years like a weary pilgrim, and bore a green roof that once must have gleamed with purpose. A schoolhouse? A church? A town hall? I never learned for sure. In time, the roof sank, the walls buckled, and the structure collapsed under its own weight. And now, since this photo was taken, it’s gone—cleared away as if it had never been.
Is this not a metaphor for history?
What happens to the structures—physical and institutional—when we fail to care, to remember, to ask questions? When we let them erode unnoticed, only to realize their importance after they’re gone?
We often hear the old warning: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.” And yet, we seem to be testing that truth with an almost reckless defiance.
I tried to find out what this building once was. Surely someone must have known. Surely it served a purpose—housed gatherings, educated children, hosted weddings, funerals, dances, decisions. And yet my search yielded nothing. Perhaps I didn’t dig deep enough. Or perhaps we’ve already allowed the memory to vanish.
And that is what frightens me.
In a time where ignorance is not just tolerated but weaponized—where libraries are shuttered, teachers threatened, history revised—I look at this image and see more than wood and ruin. I see democracy teetering. I see truth buckling beneath propaganda. I see our republic sagging under the strain of apathy and deceit.
There are forces at play now that echo the darkest chapters of human history. I do not say this lightly. Billionaires who wield power without wisdom. Politicians who parrot conspiracy and suppress truth. ICE raids in the dead of night. Human beings—neighbors—seized without due process. Laws twisted. Truth buried. Fear normalized.
This is how fascism grows—not with a sudden explosion, but with the quiet collapse of what once stood.
But here is what I believe with all my heart: those of us who care are the majority. Those of us who believe in dignity, decency, truth, compassion, and democracy—we are not few. We are many. And while fear isolates, truth connects. We must stay united, resolute, and courageous. We must speak out, vote, show up, and support one another. Evil thrives in silence and division—but it falters in the face of determined, unified resistance.
If the ruins are gone now, perhaps that too is a message. Not everything that falls must be forgotten. Some things must be rebuilt—with care, with memory, with intention.
History warns us. But it also invites us to become its stewards.
Let this image be more than a symbol of loss. Let it be a call to vigilance, to curiosity, to courage. Let us remember what once stood—not just buildings, but values. And let us become the builders of what must now rise.
~Wylddane
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