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I looked over the town of Howells and it was a beautiful sight as it.lay sleeping in the wide, tree green valley of the Maple Creek.
To a man from Mars, Howells would probably look like any other midwestern hamlet, but to me it was excitingly different, because I knew the people who worked in those stores, who lived in those homes and who worshipped in those churches.--i—■_
I had seen them happy and gay at dances and parties. I had seen them bury their dead and christen their children. Gay, generous, stingy, petty, affectionate, thoughtful, revengeful, forgiving, diligent, slothful, forgetful, meticulous—I had seen them in every light.
I knew their fathers and mothers and most of their grandfathers and grandmothers and on that quiet September morning I realized anew that a town is not a collection of buildings situated on a certain legal description.
A town is the people who live in it and for those (like me) who have been blessed with the privilege of living much of their life in = one community, a town is not only the present, but also the past—a thousand words and deeds that dwell only in the Palace of Memory.
For me a part of Howells is the wind blowing through Bobisud’s cottonwood tree (long since gone) and lulling a tired boy to sleep; the fire siren wailing and blowing as Copy Dickey’s funeral procession climbed the long mile to the cemetery; Dr. Myers whistling as he marched down the‘street; the sun shining through the gold stained glass window and painting a strange mosaic picture on the church floor; Jim Drahota laughSTOP!
AT THIS SIGN
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