Lerado

Over the holidays, I went over to my Grandma McCandless's house for Christmas "dinner" (which out in central Kansas means Christmas lunch). Lunch is "dinner" and dinner is "supper." The couch is the "divan," my name is "Jessie Maye," and pets never, ever come into the house.

It's a whole other world....

The conversation began about my work. Grandma couldn't understand how I could do work for an office located five hours away. I told her I telecommute. She didn't understand, so I told her I'm connected online to the office and can work on my computer, through the internet, just the same as if I were in the office. She didn't understand. So I just told her I work on the computer all day, and if someone needs something they email or call.

It was an awkward conversation so the family asked me about where I was staying. Their interest in horses is limited, but their interest in the surrounding communities knows no bounds. It was at this point I heard about the tiny community of Lerado.


Lerado was once apparently a thriving community that is now all but deserted. It's only a handful of miles away from where I'm staying, but I had never even heard of it. However, on my way home I took a blacktop that I was hoping would save a few miles off my drive and low and behold, there was the sign for Lerado.

I followed it.


The town is definitely deserted.

But the cemetery shows the community's once thriving population.


I am fascinated by the headstones in old cemeteries.

To me, they are works of art, paying tribute to a beloved family member.

Some of the headstones are heartbreaking.

Some of them are eerily beautiful.

Then on the way home, I passed by the old schoolhouse.

The childhood of the some of the people in that cemetery was probably spent here, reading books, answering their teacher's questions, playing games in the yard during recess.

I love these old, decaying buildings, the sense of times gone by, the echos of the lives that played out before us. They had hopes and dreams, and they felt hope for the future just as we do. The world has moved on after they've long gone, just as it will continue to do when the memories of us have long passed. They tend to put life's problems into perspective.

"History is a cyclic poem written by Time upon the memories of man." ~Percy Bysshe Shelley