It started out as a mud pit—a giant sandbox, a place for construction workers to push piles of dirt to and fro.
Then, for a while, it was a tree and shrub graveyard, the skeletal, brown branches shivering in the cold.
Now, most of us still aren’t sure what it is. Some have said Reischl requested it as a set for a Vietnam War reenactment; others claim it’s a rain garden—a sort of glorified drainage basin—installed with an inexplicable sprinkler system.
Despite its ambiguous purpose, the square of plants enclosed by Liberty’s classrooms is a gem that is all-too-easily taken for granted.
Just three years ago, many of Liberty’s teachers were forced to call the dungeon, a bleak, windowless cube, their home. The maze of halls, illuminated only by the buzzing ceiling lights, was reminiscent of District 13. Dazed math students could gaze only at fractal and magic eye posters. Those uninspired by their timed writes were relegated to seeking insight in pictures of the scantily-clad boys swim team. One could go the entire day without laying eyes on the sun.
It’s only because of the addition of that lush little garden that those days are over.
Today’s students can catch a break from the harsh blue light of the library computer screens by resting their eyes on the warm green leaves and basking in the peaceful breeze of the Big Ass fans.
Dull lectures are livened up by visits from families of deer coming to nosh on the softest new shoots.
The yawns of sleepy students are checked by the rays of natural light streaming through the windows.
Sure, the trees may be growing in asymmetrically and there may or may not be an explanation for the raised figure eight of gravel, but this garden has done more for use than many Liberty Patriots realize. So thank you, rain garden, for brightening our days.