a grain elevator. But the thing that
drew my eye was a cardboard box
stuffed with papers. I dug through its
contents and was instantly transported
back in time. There was a tax return
from 1957. Canceled checks from June
- Greeting cards from old friends
and relatives, now all dead and gone.
An uncle’s third-grade spelling book.
I spent most of a pleasant hour going
through that box. All the while, I had
to answer a stream of questions from
my sons about the old house. They
were amazed that nine people once
occupied the tiny structure, and that
they did so without running water or
electricity. I related how on cold winter
mornings, a pail of water would be iced
over even though it sat right next to the
cookstove. And they shivered when I
told them that in those days the cook-
stove was their only source of heat.
So it was that the old house was
spared the torch.
The years passed, and our visits
grew infrequent. The house once
again enjoyed the lonely solitude of
our meadow. As we hurried through
our lives, I might catch a glimpse of
it through the trees and wonder: How
did they manage? How did they sur-
vive the dust storms and the floods
and the blizzards and the Great De-
pression? They must have been made
of sterner stuff than I was. I remem-
bered how, as a child, I would strug-
gle to walk in my father’s footprints.
Even then, I could imagine no noblerIllustration by Sally Deng rd.com 25
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