ROCKWALL,TX. (July 16, 2014) Stepping into the museum that day I had no idea where my life was heading. I had little way of knowing this would soon become my home away from home. It was spring and the annual blossoming of promise was in the air, enough so that my son and I had promised each other we would spend the day together and I surprised him with a treat, or so I thought I had.
“We’re going to see the oldest house in Rockwall today!” I burst at the seams with excitement but his reaction was a little less than enthusiastic.
“Why?” he moaned from behind his locked bedroom door.
I calculated, knowing my next few syllables were pivotal for the remainder of our day and how I had it all strategically laid out to unfold in “Precious Moments” fashion.
“Because!” I screamed, missing the mark by a few hundred yards. “It’s FREE!”
The Museum at Harry Myers Park is indeed housed in the oldest house in Rockwall dating back to 1850 and it is free to visit; but I had little more information than that about our outing to this historic site on this particular day.
When we arrived at the skirts of the park the first thing to come into view as we topped the hill was the monumental windmill that hovers just above the rooftop behind the old dog-trot style white house. The windmill sits like a beacon on this landscape; screeching and moving slowly in the breeze knowingly like a giant watchman towering over the prairie. I imagined the desolate countryside with the mules dragging the plows and the women and children in the fields running alongside the wagons full of the crops yield as the men sweat and curse the heat. It was hard not to be riveted back in time as we approached the old house.
Anxious to enter I already had to wrangle my son who had located the pond and the lure of the fish, turtles and inevitable mud. “Hurry! I’m not going in ALONE!!” I bellowed through the park.
The opaque window on the front door has a certain mystique about it as if the inhabitant can see you but you can’t see them. It’s untrue; but when you approach, the stillness of the past somewhat has it’s way with you. The house is beautiful and restored to its former simplicity. On this day, there was not the inevitable photographer lurking about its parameters. We were indeed alone hesitating on the wide front porch half anticipating a sheeted figure to lunge out of the bushes.
We turned the knob of the door and budged the mist of the daylight to be absorbed into the home. The vintage doorbell that rings overhead when hit by the door as it is pushed ajar stunned us. I jumped back and nearly pushed Ashton back down the steps of the home. “Geez Mom, relax! It’s a bell!”
“It rang all by itself!” I screeched, pulling out the dramatic card I could tell by now his interest was also piqued.
Ashton pushed his way past me and clamored up to the vintage high school letter jackets, cheerleader outfits, and memorabilia of the 1963 State Championship lining the main hallway.
“Look at all this stuff Mom! It’s older than you! Do you think Rockwall really won a state championship in football?”
“Well now,” I said positioning myself for a better view of the shrine, “they sure did! See, I told you they had cool stuff in here!”
Again, I shoved past him to get to the old schoolhouse desk and opposite display. “Look at all these old diplomas and senior scrapbooks! Do you know how old these pictures are? Look at their shoes!” 
The scrapbooks were filled with the memories of lives from nearly 100 years ago that in the pictures seem so much more relative to today than I had anticipated. We were able to thumb through the pages of high school history, keepsakes, and photos. Ashton took a great interest in the sketches of old farmhouses and one-room schoolhouses that once littered the county. I explained to Ashton that the earliest settlers did not have schools at all until around 1855 when the first school was established in the lower floor of the Masonic Lodge.
“They just worked all the time, didn’t they Mom? The kids really helped their mom and dad do all those chores, farm and stuff, right?” His eyes were fixed on me now and I could see that clarity of moment in him that every parent longs for in their child.
“Yes, Ashton. They all worked together to survive. It was a hard life but they all loved each other and took great care of one-another.” It was a precious moment day after all and we had only just begun.
Story and photos submitted by Blue Ribbon News guest columnist Robin Shackelford, an independent consultant and curator for The Museum at Harry Myers Park and The Rockwall County Historical Foundation, a non-profit organization dedicated to preserving the history of Rockwall County and the education of all individuals of its rich history.
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