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By PEKAY PETTUS
MISS ANNA WOOD is “somewhere between a hundred years old’’ and lives alone in an old school house between Flint Hill and Amissville where she takes care of herself “as tight as 1 can.” Her house, perhaps a little* red school house at one time, is now a faded pink but is still a handsome little building. It’s only a few feet off Route 647, a dirt road which is being widened and paved.
“No, me, 1 don’t getlonesome,” she said. “I never get lonesome, cause all the time some people, people what knows me and people what don’t knows me, stop here. I’m right on the road, you see. A whole lot of people stops here.” she says.
But being close to the road has its disadvantages, too. People used to steal from her woodpile. So now at least half of the one room in which she sits, cooks and sleeps is piled from the floor near to the ceiling with stove wood. “I hadn’t been doing like this here—keeping a whole lot of wood in the house—but I had to do it, on account of people picks it up. See, right here’s the road. People
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