Your old scrapbooks might occasionally complain about being forgotten in the corner of an attic. They don’t know anything about being forgotten. I should know. I’m actually an attic.

Back in the 1920s, some dude named Alfred Arvold constructed me in the attic space of Old Main. I was happy being a dusty old attic, but Arvold thought I was a waste and turned me into a log cabin. The reconstructive surgery was actually quite painful.

Arvold named me the Lincoln Log Cabin in honor of our illustrious president. Lincoln looks down his nose at anyone who enters my dining area (he is reduced to a bust sitting on the mantle).

For 40 years, I was the life of the party. I was the scene for set design, costuming and makeup for the Little Country Theater. I entertained distinguished guests at dinner parties before and after shows at the theater, which I was connected to. I was filled with laughter and activity. I sang Arvold’s praises for turning me, a lonely old attic, into a bustling attraction.

And then along came 1968. Gone were the gigantic parties, the nights of endless fun. “Fire codes,” they said. They sealed me off and turned the Little Country Theater into office spaces. My access to the outside world was completely sectioned off (except for an upstairs window entrance where some adventurous souls could enter).

I sat. After 40 years of bustling excitement and noise, the silence was (as they say) deafening. I gathered dust and small creatures for 25 whole years. I was alone for 25 years, completely abandoned, forsaken and forgotten. Twenty-five years! I’m not sure how I made it through.

I frequently thought of ending it all in a blazing fire of glory, but some lines spoken long ago within my rooms stayed my hand.

“To die, to sleep,
To sleep, perchance to Dream; aye, there’s the rub,
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause.”

That, and they sealed me off because of “fire codes,” so I would have felt guilty about calling down a bolt of lightning to end the misery of my abandonment.

Then some of Arvold’s old students finally took pity on me. They scraped together some funds, and worked carefully to restore me to my former glory. Reconstructive surgery number two was slightly less painful than the original.

Twenty-five years I waited, and finally I was going to see people again. I was giddy with excitement — the impending closeness of dinner parties and entertainment was beyond tantalizing.

And then they let me down again.

“Only eight people at one time,” they said. “Fire codes.”

Curse those fire codes.

But as it turns out, there was no reason to be irritated at the eight person limit, because nobody knows I exist. There is a literal log cabin in the attic of Old Main, and barely any of the students even know about it. A literal log cabin.

Occasionally some students interested in theater or history will wander through my rooms, or a few people will eat their lunches at my dining table, but largely I sit empty. Here I am, carefully restored and beautiful and bursting with history, and nobody will take the time to see me.

All they have to do is go to the president’s office and ask any of the staff if they can see the Lincoln Log Cabin, but they don’t even do that. I remain convinced that it’s because the sign outside of Old Main doesn’t have my name on it and just advertises administrative offices and the president’s office.

But I’m not bitter.