Time, Timber, and Tenacity in Virginia City

Old School Still Stands

By the great jumping Jehoshaphat, if you’ve ever laid eyes on a relic refusing to die with dignity, then you’d appreciate the grand old lady perched at 537 South C Street in Virginia City—the Fourth Ward School Museum, a four-story marvel of sawdust, sentiment, and stubbornness that’s been standing tall since the Centennial year of 1876. And if a building can have a soul–and it’s reckoned they can, if they creak loud enough–then this one has enough character to fill a Mark Twain novel and still leave room for a saloon or two.

Miss Nora Stefu, the Executive Director, part-time historian, part-time philosopher, and full-time miracle worker, reckons keeping the school standing and shining is akin to solving puzzles with half the pieces missing and the rest scattered in barns, attics, and under generations of Virginia City dust.

“A lot of passion went into this building,” says she, “to secure it, preserve it, and keep it open for the public.”

She talks like a woman who’s seen the rafters groan and paint peel but still believes in resurrection.

Built in the Second Empire style by one Mr. C.M. Bennett—who, it is suspects, had no small ambition to match the boomtown swagger of the Comstock Lode—the school once held 1,000 wide-eyed young scholars, ranging from tiny tots to hormone-fueled twelfth-graders, all trying to learn their letters while probably dreaming of silver veins and stagecoach adventures. Electric lights? Indoor plumbing? Oh yes. Virginia City was no podunk—it was a proper beacon of civilization, even if you had to sneak across the girls’ balcony to find the restroom.

But the years have not been kind to the wood and brick, and Miss Stefu found the old gal in rough shape—a bit like an old prospector–weather-beaten and needing some serious TLC. Enter Reyman Bros. Construction, a Reno outfit with enough reverence and patience to restore the building without turning it into something unrecognizable.

“They know the building inside and out,” Stefu said. “They’ve been with her since the ‘80s.”

That’s loyalty rarer than a back ally saloon with an honest barkeep.

Mr. Darrell Linscott, project manager and likely a fellow with a deep respect for tight corners and aged wood, spoke of the delicate work involved—like performing surgery with a hammer. “You have to maintain the look they were creating when it was first built,” he explained, as if time itself was standing behind him wagging a finger.

Now, Miss Stefu ain’t some wide-eyed transplant with a romantic notion of the Old West. She’s walked the streets of Greece, earned her stripes in cultural preservation, and studied everything from political science to folklore. She could’ve ended up anywhere in the world, but Virginia City, with generous spirits and communal grit, got under her skin.

“I feel like I’m back in time,” she said, her voice thick with wonder and affection.

And who wouldn’t, standing in that proud old building, with its bell tower still singing the song of 1876 and its walls whispering the lessons of long-gone children?

So next time you find yourself aimlessly wandering Nevada’s high desert, point your boots toward Virginia City. You’ll find a schoolhouse made of wood and nails, memory and muscle, grit and grace.

And maybe, just maybe, you’ll hear the echoes of chalk on slate, the creak of a teacher’s chair, and the faint ring of a bell refusing to go away.