She bought it in 1968, the year she retired after forty years as a teacher. Her friend, who claimed he could fix anything and had an eye for value, connected her to the mobile home dealer just outside of town. These houses on wheels were relatively new but offered everything a person could want. She was taken by the room inside, as that one was called a double-wide, much more spacious than the single model. As they looked around, her friend pointed out it wasn't the best construction he'd seen in all his years, but he'd seen much worse. An excited man greeted them and offered to show them other models with various floor plans, but she was certain the one she'd been looking at was her favorite.
She had inherited a parcel of land, tree-covered, with ten acres of grassland and even a small pond; she could imagine a place to sit and read. A short time later, a large truck brought her new home to the property where four men, two days before, laid the slab and hooked up the water lines in preparation for this day. She sat in a chair out of their way and watched, and marveled at their skills at work. She did admit there were times she got very nervous as a man or two climbed underneath the trailer to level it, with only their legs hanging out, a reminder of The Wizard of Oz and the bad witch looking the same way.
That first night without any furniture wasn't terrible, but she admitted she was more than happy when she heard a truck coming up the hill with a load of furniture she had purchased a week ago. Two young, seemingly very strong men went to work unloading and placing everything where she instructed them, and they finished in no time at all. Then she felt more at home, especially when her son showed up with two of her grandsons pulled up in a pickup truck filled with boxes of her personal belongings. After some lemonade and sandwiches, they left her to unpack and put things in place, each piece a part of her past she treasured. The china she got when her grandma passed away, a collection of books, mostly novels she'd read a dozen times, and two standing floor lamps she had found at a thrift store. She tucked away the box labeled Christmas and another labeled My memories that she opened.
She sat down and opened the box containing old pictures of family and friends, with plenty of wall space to hang them and look at them every day. She pulled out a small wooden box where she kept her wedding rings, a St. Christopher pendant, and the scapular she received at her first communion decades ago. Digging deeper into the box, she found her son's baby shoes she had bronzed like so many parents had done back then. Three photo holders held more than pictures: pages of children's drawings from years as a teacher she couldn't let go of. She'd look at each one with a child's name on it, and she could close her eyes and see that child plain as day.
Time went on, and she had turned the land into a sanctuary where wildflowers grew, and butterflies flew free. Sunflowers and fireflies called this place home and never disappointed her, giving her a magical show when the stars came out. She sat on a bench her son made for her, a few feet from the pond, where frogs said hello and curious small animals learned over time that the nuts she scattered were for them. After so many years of telling kids what to do, it was time for the land and all its wonders to teach her.
She lived a peaceful life on her hill in her mobile home, passing away on that bench with a handful of nuts in her hand at ninety-four years of age. In the years that followed, her name became known as the lady who lived in a home with wheels, among the wildflowers and butterflies, at peace with nature and with herself. On a wall in her son's house hangs a picture of an old lady dressed in coveralls, her long white hair never cut after she first moved into her home. She smiled from ear to ear, and the light above her wasn't just daylight but the light of a free soul continuing her journey from teacher to student.
That first night without any furniture wasn't terrible, but she admitted she was more than happy when she heard a truck coming up the hill with a load of furniture she had purchased a week ago. Two young, seemingly very strong men went to work unloading and placing everything where she instructed them, and they finished in no time at all. Then she felt more at home, especially when her son showed up with two of her grandsons pulled up in a pickup truck filled with boxes of her personal belongings. After some lemonade and sandwiches, they left her to unpack and put things in place, each piece a part of her past she treasured. The china she got when her grandma passed away, a collection of books, mostly novels she'd read a dozen times, and two standing floor lamps she had found at a thrift store. She tucked away the box labeled Christmas and another labeled My memories that she opened.
She sat down and opened the box containing old pictures of family and friends, with plenty of wall space to hang them and look at them every day. She pulled out a small wooden box where she kept her wedding rings, a St. Christopher pendant, and the scapular she received at her first communion decades ago. Digging deeper into the box, she found her son's baby shoes she had bronzed like so many parents had done back then. Three photo holders held more than pictures: pages of children's drawings from years as a teacher she couldn't let go of. She'd look at each one with a child's name on it, and she could close her eyes and see that child plain as day.
Time went on, and she had turned the land into a sanctuary where wildflowers grew, and butterflies flew free. Sunflowers and fireflies called this place home and never disappointed her, giving her a magical show when the stars came out. She sat on a bench her son made for her, a few feet from the pond, where frogs said hello and curious small animals learned over time that the nuts she scattered were for them. After so many years of telling kids what to do, it was time for the land and all its wonders to teach her.
She lived a peaceful life on her hill in her mobile home, passing away on that bench with a handful of nuts in her hand at ninety-four years of age. In the years that followed, her name became known as the lady who lived in a home with wheels, among the wildflowers and butterflies, at peace with nature and with herself. On a wall in her son's house hangs a picture of an old lady dressed in coveralls, her long white hair never cut after she first moved into her home. She smiled from ear to ear, and the light above her wasn't just daylight but the light of a free soul continuing her journey from teacher to student.
Mike 2026
Mike 2026
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