Papa

Glennonville, home of my childhood - where have you gone? The white New England style church has been torn down. The lovely stained glass windows depicting the Stations of the Cross are gone. The beautiful little Christmas crèche so lovingly carried from Germany is gone. Never was I so devoted as I was before Christmas. I would slip into the church on my way home from school to stare at the tiny figures. Sometimes I remembered to say a prayer for Mama and Papa. The little church with the wheezing pump organ has been replaced by a characterless "modern" sixties style building. The heater works and the parishioners don't shiver in the cold winter mornings. But the coziness and comforting familiarity is gone. A circuit priest hurries though the Sunday morning mass then rushes off to the next parish. The funerals are arranged by a funeral parlor in the near by town. Father and his brother are not there to embalm the bodies in the rectory basement. The blacksmith is not around to make the pine caskets. My maiden aunts are not there to sew the shrouds. There are no all night vigils in the home for the dead.

Weddings in the community are by invitation only. Movies in town and nightclubs in the nearby towns have replaced Sunday night socials. The high school students are bussed to town. Little first graders still attend the parish school taught by lay teachers who have master's degrees but no switches.

Mama's House

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.