Grandma packs her paltry belongings in a rag bag – more rag than bag. Folded neatly is a worn flannel gown mended only to last “one more year”. The spigot from their first sink with running water from their old farmhouse down country is wrapped in a paper. At the top of the bag, she places a carefully bound 2-page scrapbook holding news clippings from the day Papa bought the Keller farm plus one faded photograph of their wedding 50 years prior.
Now Papa was not an ambitious man – a dozen coops in the backyard with cages too small for the hens. Papa had one expectation. Each day the hens would lay one egg. No egg; chicken soup. She could barely keep the pot full. When Papa died, the chickens stopped laying altogether. No eggs; chicken soup.
The mortgage came due and Papa’s small nest egg was gone. The bank would not accept Grandma’s offer of payment by chicken soup. The bank foreclosed. No chickens; no eggs. No chicken soup.
Grandma moves to the County home.
betsy mcdermott fecto