Spring in Woodsville came quickly on the heels of winter, and that day was the warmest day of the year so far, though that wasn’t saying much. Through most of March, the schoolchildren wore thick wool long johns under their clothes and the little red schoolhouse was as cold and drafty as an attic and just as dusty. When it came to schooling, the good citizens of Woodsville didn’t have many options. There were no fancy highbrow institutions, no boarding schools and prep academies like there are today. The town had two schools: one red brick elementary for the first through seventh grades, and one brown brick high school for eighth through twelfth. Catherine and Leo first met at the little red schoolhouse. On that beautiful day, the wildflowers were slowly beginning to emerge—the lilies, the trillium, the violets, the milkweed, the columbine, and the black-eyed Susans. The snow was gone; the rivers were high; and the sun lingered long hours in the evening sky. Because children came from many miles to learn reading and arithmetic in Woodsville, there were enough children for two fourth-grade classes that year; something the headmaster told them when the Taylors moved to Woodsville and went to enroll their young son Leo.
