Holy Tornado

To see the soul of your comrade listen carefully to his music.

Friday, June 16, 2006


I love old vacant homes. I can't explain how they make me feel. It's something deeper than words can express. A feeling that is part of my soul.

I can imagine the family who lived there. I visualize the father, in the fields, working from sun-up to sundown. I see the mother shoving wood into her cook stove, wiping her hands on her apron and punching down the bread dough rising in the blue enamel pan.
I see the children running in the large yard, tall grass whipping at their legs, shooting marbles in the powdery dirt, and climbing trees. I see the clothes hanging on the line, long pant legs waving joyfully in the gentle wind as the baby's diapers flutter like a flock of white doves.

In the country here, many times the farmers don't tear or burn down the old farm homes. They build new ones close by, and they allow the dear old family homes decompose according to the years and the elements.
They show honor and respect for the shelter and warmth she has provided her family.
These old homes were generally well built and can remain standing for many years.

But I think that sometimes, in the cool of the evening when the sun begins to fade, if we wait at the end of the long lane leading to the old place, and we listen carefully, we can still hear the voices of her family.
Mother calls, "come children, time for bed." Then the laughing of the children as they plead for just ten more minutes, and the squeals as one more game of hide and seek is begun. And eventually father's gruff voice calls and then, silence as the family sleeps.

And now when she is old and her family has grown and gone, the mice burrow into their soft nests against her walls, and the birds safely sleep in the attic.
She may be old and decrepit, most of her windows gone, and the floor rotted through, but she is still standing and sheltering life.

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