I saw in an out of town newspaper, an article about a young man who graduated at the top of his class. I remembered his parents, I knew his mother a long time ago. I wanted to give the boy a little graduation gift but didn't know their address, and there was no phone number in the book, so I drove to their home town and up and down back streets asking people "do you know so and so," and found out where they lived.

They live on the backside of a backwater town. The town sewage lagoon is down the road near where they live. There is street after street of dilapidated houses, cars up on blocks, many of them looking as if they'd been there for years, overgrown yards, trashy yards, sad sinking looking grimy houses that screamed "grinding poverty." When I would see anyone outside, I'd stop and ask directions and the folks would give me unfriendly looks as if I were a parole officer. Maybe they thought I was a bill collector or the law or someone equally ominous.

One man who had a neat clean yard,limped out when I drove up, and I complimented him on his mown pretty yard, and he eyed me suspiciously. Surely there must have been someone else along the way who has commented on his yard. Maybe not.

How such a bright good looking young man could arise from this milieu is surprising--I suspect his mother, a wonderful lady, is responsible for that. After I found where they lived, nobody was home, but I'll go back again.

Poverty is an awful thing.
I mean I was raised in poverty too, and seeing those depressing conditions makes my heart heavy. There's something about poverty that's a spirit killer.

susil