I can’t see far from this window; there are a lot of trees and shrubs in front of it. I can see a long way back, however. Back to the days when my grandmother played Old Maid with me when I was little and I cheated by looking at the reflection of the cards in her glasses and back to learning how to embroider.

The porch was always here, but the enclosure came when Eisenhower built the Toll Road; engineers rented the west rooms of the house for an office and my grandmother used the money to have the half-walls built and the metal crank-out windows installed. I remember opening the double doors and peeking into the office when they weren’t working and seeing the big drafting tables. I also remember riding on the Toll Road before it was opened, but I didn’t see much – just the dashboard in front of my face. We stopped and turned around because an overpass had not yet been built. At least that’s what they told me – it was sort of a radio adventure for me.

I can see ahead out these windows, and I can see what is here now. And what is here now is okay with me and it is okay if it changes slowly into what is ahead. It is not a matter of cleaning out – it is one of passing on things to those who will find them of use and remembrances. That is the true value for me . . . for those who knew her so long to have something that is a link to her.