School Of Divinity

To prove his point, Michael claimed the building for himself. Then, he claimed that the building would become the Atwell School of Divinity.

The school's dedication occurred on July 4th, 1889. John-John Bergeron was the first student to enroll.

Michael Atwell was a loving and patient tutor. He had a true love of the subject matter and passed on that love to John-John. Martin Culver was the second student, Paul Thibodeaux was the third student to enroll; neither one of the youths had any desire to become miners in the footsteps of their fathers, their older brothers.

Joseph Michael Atwell became the second Dean and Head Instructor of Atwell School of Divinity when his father died of a massive heart attack, coupling with both of Joseph's mothers. At fifty eight years of age, Michael Atwell seemed to be in the prime of life, of good health and strong constitution. So it was truly a shock when he passed.

By the time of Michael Atwell's passing, Atwell School of Divinity had four buildings, had seventy students and nine instructors.

Francis Miller, the librarian of Atwell waited one year from the passing of Michael Atwell, then had his hair cut and his mustache and beard trimmed. Putting on his best suit, he saddled his mare and trotted up the hill to the small home that the two Atwell wives occupied.

Marie was polite to their guest and bade him sit. Catherine offered their guest tea, or perhaps he would care for a little of Michael's secret stash of hard apple cider?

"Mrs. Atwell, I am a man of God!" he spluttered. "I would not drink alcohol if you were to put a gun to my head and order me to imbibe."

"Mr. Miller, perhaps you did not hear me," Catherine smiled, brushing her dark hair back with her hand.

There were some small indentations at the corners of Catherine's dark eyes. The dark hair did have a few strands of silver woven throughout. But Catherine Atwell was still a stunning beauty with a well-rounded, pleasing figure. She'd birthed four children, those four children had put a few well-placed pounds on her frame.

At thirty eight, nearly thirty nine years of age, Catherine Atwell was very much in the prime of her life. She now had the beauty of a mature woman.

"Our Michael? He was a man of God yeah," Marie said, sitting next to Catherine.

Marie's golden hair had some silver threaded through her hair. Her blue eyes were still beautiful, there were no wrinkles on her beautiful face. Her figure too was the figure of a woman that had birthed five children, but could perhaps bear three or four more.

"Oh, yes ma'am, that he was, he was," Francis agreed. "Why, there was no finer man than Michael Atwell."

"But it was Michael Atwell that made the cider," Catherine smiled.

"Man! He liked him a little bit after we had us our supper," Marie smiled sadly.

"Said it was the only way he could keep up with having two wives," Catherine smiled.

Francis did hem and haw, but did finally get around to asking Catherine if, seeing that a year had passed since Michael Atwell's passing, if she might be agreeable to courtship. Both Catherine and Marie smiled softly.

"Mr. Miller, I, we are flattered," Catherine said gently.

"But we got each other yeah," Marie said.

"But thank you just the same," Catherine said, rising to her feet.

Francis wished to press the matter, but the arrival of the five youngest of Catherine and Marie's children, with several fish from the nearby creek in their hands did stifle the protests. Neither Marie nor Catherine asked him if he wished to stay for supper as both set about cleaning the fish.

Two more teachers from the school did make the journey, one refused the offer of cider and was summarily dismissed. The other took the offer and drank nearly an entire bottle in a short span of time. That man came to the next morning, asleep in the stables of the school, with no recollection of how he may have arrived there.

Today, the school sits on Martinelli, Idaho. The town to the west is named Bergeron.

In a small cemetery on the campus of the school, , there are several tombstones scattered throughout. Underneath the canopy of an oak tree are three weathered, aged markers, for Michael, Catherine, and Marie Atwell. The three lie in repose, looking over the school and the school's students.

Michael's marker shows that he died in 1898, at the age of fifty eight. Catherine's marker shows the year of her death to be 1918, also at the age of fifty eight. Marie's marker shows that she passed away in 1938, at the age of seventy eight. Hers was the last funeral presided over by Joseph Atwell; he died less than two months after his 'Momma Marie' went to her reward.

Joseph was also the last Atwell to attend Atwell School of Divinity until 1968 when Michael Henry Atwell, great-great-great-great grandson of Michael and Marie Atwell dodged the draft by signing up for the college.

THE END

**Author's Note: I write these stories for my pleasure; I post them here for your enjoyment. I thank you sincerely for reading my stories.

I especially thank those that take the time to leave comments, good and bad, and those that take the time to rate my stories. I likewise need to take a moment to thank those that 'Favorite' my stories. It is an honor, that you enjoy my words so much that you would want to save them, to return to them again and again. Thank you.

I do not, however, read emails. A few of the ones I did read when I first started posting to this site were so hateful, some even threatening that I now delete them without reading them. So, if you've any comments to share with me, post them here so that we can all enjoy your observations.

Atwell School of Divinity was featured quite prominently in the 'Just A Nice Boy' series in the Incest/Taboo category. It had also been mentioned in a few other tales of mine. So, I thought I'd take a moment to write of the school's origins.

Have a swell day. And some of you? Have a swollen day.