Three years ago, when I first rode through town, I noticed a Christian Science church on Oak Street. Since then, I have never seen anyone there, nor did I venture in but I liked the little brick building. There was always uncollected mail in the box, something I monitored. Someone picked it up occasionally, then it would fill again. Today, a new sign for an internet service provider adorned the east side of the building saying that new service is coming soon.

Last chance. Emileanne and I stopped. The front door was unlocked so we went in. It smelled of age. It smelled of myths. It smelled the same as the Sitka reading room, the same as my youth, the same as always. It was dusty and musty. It didn't appear as though anyone had used the place in years.

Three weeks later

Emileanne and I went to see the church again this evening. Now, although ivy still crawls up the brick walls, scaffolding surrounds the building. The mold and dust have been replaced by fresh paint, new window trim and glass. The old carpet, the curtains, the seating, the dais, the stage and the plaque that said "God is Love" are gone. Three weeks after I got my last sniff of that archaic killer, the shift to the twenty-first century is underway. The building that once hosted hopes based on myths and lies, where incomprehensible gibberish spewed forth from hypocritical readers, where mutterings that were only partially absorbed by an audience collectively afraid of the advance of science, had been completely gutted.