Elder's wisdom

Margaret Oakley wrote a short on-line memoir "Growing up in Glennonville" about growing up in the 1930's on a family farm in Missouri. I like this passage: "Except for an acre, Papa and Mama's small farm has been sold off to a farming conglomerate. There are no wild rose fences left. The path running through the field to Uncle Carol's house has been plowed under. The persimmon tree that stood in the middle of the field for shade is gone. The wind blows the dust across the fields denuded of wind breaking trees. A dust devil can be seen rising into the air. The arrowheads in the old potato patch are buried under several feet of chemically fertilized soil. "Progress", you say?

The little house is slowly caving in. The curtains hang in shreds at the windows. Despite the decay, the tin roof that shelters the house can be seen in all its tarnished glory. Jonquils, planted by Mama so many years ago, still bloom in the yard each spring. Members of the Lady's Alter Society pick them to place on the altars at Easter Mass. Children beg to explore the old house when they pass by with their parents. They hope to discover a ghost lingering within. They need have no fear of the little spirit woman they have glimpsed. It is only Anna hurrying to the back porch, drying her hands on her apron, to welcome them"