Here's a piece I've been working on to answer this question. It's my first
attempt at writing about feelings and people, rather than my usual "bricks and
mortar."

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Copyright 1998 John C. Leeke

Small midwestern towns are all alike. Except to the families who live in
them. This town is special to you and so is your old home.

Sweeping up oak leaves sticking damply to your old front porch after last
night's rain, you notice a little peeling paint at the base of a column.
Chunks of rotten wood fall away when you poke the base with the broom
handle. You sit down on the top step for a closer look, and sigh. Now
you'll have to hire a carpenter, and hope that fixing it's not too costly.

As the sun beats down, the air hot and close, your thoughts begin to drift.
You recall a time long past when you sat in your grandfather's lap as he
leaned back against this very column. You both had just planted the oak
tree in the front yard, high and leafy now, but just a slender stick of a
thing back then. Grandpa had kept an eye on a storm that threatened since
morning, and when you'd finished planting you sat together on this same top
step to share a cool drink of water.

The storm approached with a breeze and then a stronger gust with a few fat
drops big as june bugs that stirred up that damp-dusty smell. Suddenly a
downpour hit. You both scrambled back under the porch to curl up in a
wicker chair. He told you about another storm just like this one, even more
years back, one that blew in the day he built this porch.

Rain beating on a roof makes a youngster sleepy, and his story drifted in
and out of your mind. Something about a small mishap bracing a column against
the
wind, and aligning the columns with a level. The wind suddenly danced
around the two of you, a chilly gremlin, and you worried that your granddad
might've been hurt all those years ago, and about the rain pouring down
now, and the thunder rolling around in the clouds above.

With a quiet respect he explained how the Corinthian columns were like
trees, tapering up with leaves spreading at the top, "just like that little
oak out in the front yard, drinking up the rain." Thunder crashed, pounding
down  around the porch and you snuggled deeper into his embrace. It felt good
having a grandpa to
shield you from the storm, and you were thankful that he'd built a porch as
strong as oaks to protect you from the thunder.

Today, it's not rainy at all, just another hot, muggy summer afternoon, and
that time is long past, and your grandfather lives only in your memories.
The tree is still here, though, tall and sheltering, and so is the porch,
in need of a little repair. So somewhere you'll find a sensible carpenter
who will repair the column. Patch it up, so it'll protect your children,
and in time their children, too.

Or maybe, you think, leaning back against that very column, maybe you'll
just fix up this fine old porch yourself.

Copyright 1998 John C. Leeke
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John