20Grandma’s farm was in a rural district of a town called Bloomfield, near the site where a Shawnee Indian Village used to be, adjacent to a large spring in Missouri’s boot heel, halfway between St. Louis and Memphis. The house was on a grassy hill that rose above fields of corn, ponds full of catfish and a huge vegetable garden.
As we drove up the hill, there was a full moon and I could see the giant oak that still held my tire swing, on a chain that seemed to be a mile long. On the front porch was a pot of plastic flowers and a large American flag.
Grandma Z met us at the door, on her tiptoes, with hugs. She was well under five feet tall and about half as wide. Not fat, just stocky like a workhorse. Shorter than me and I was still growing.
“Well, aren’t you precious,” she said, holdin
