Sally Ann has a permanent case of melancholy it seems. She tends to be secretive and at times melodramatic. Light plays upon her as if she were a panel in a stained glass window in some ancient cathedral. But she is all Southern and Baptist and country picnics and summer under the oak trees. Sally Ann likes to read Jane Austen. Sometimes she thinks she was born in the wrong age. In this photo she is posing in front of the broken window of the old Wanetta School House, well what is left of it. The old school is located near Percilla, Texas down a series of winding dirt roads that only the most intrepid would take the time to follow. There are stories that the old school is haunted, that sometimes folks find voodoo dolls scattered across its floors. But Sally Ann saw none of that. The only ghosts besides herself, an old Fisher Price red plastic record player and a mound of dirt dauber nests–a small ziggurat where someone had removed them from the walls, but not from the premises. But still, Sally Ann could feel the presence of the children who once scuffed their shoes across the wooden floors, floors now falling through and riddled with the new growth of small trees. Soon nothing much will be left here. Sally Ann realizes this. Another 30 years and perhaps there will just be boards and rusty nails, a living sculpture of thorn-vines and rubble. Sally Ann herself is aglow with speculation–just who was I? she thinks. I am as unknowable as the sounds that once pulsed between these walls. I am as voiceless as these floors. I am a window, yes, look through me, but to what end? What do you see?