THE HOME PLACE A little west along the road, on higher ground Beyond the Big Blue River, you can see the house And barns cut farmer-spare against the cobalt sky, A mile away across the level stand of beans. A century hasn't changed the home place much at all. The windows still throw back the light, defiant as A young girl's eyes when there's a secret to be kept, Here she was born, on this two hundred acre range, Where first her grandfather farmed and now her son, Where planting could be dry and easy; calving, wet And hard. How many suppers had she warmed again Because machinery quit out in the field before The work was done? Perhaps the peaceful kitchen knows The hunger laid to rest within its walls, all built, She says, her eyebrows up, with timbers taken when They tore the casket factory down. Folks made do then. She sold the house some years ago, but kept the land Because one doesn't trade her soul. Now living in The neighbouring woods behind, she's near enogh to hear The massive iron bell out on the shed. How rare it is To find a life so rooted to a single place, Just like the rugged elm beside the house today, Surviving prairie wind and summer lightning. She's Among the few whose vision of the world improves By standing still, by watching every harvest come. And if, in leaner years, she walked these rooms at night To battle with her ghosts, she must have cast them out. Her blessing shines. This is a house that's fit for life. -- With permission of author, Thomas Alan ORR, from "Hammers in the Fog," Restoration Press, Indianapolis, IN (1995). Tom's Scotch-Irish ancestors have a connection to No. Ireland and to Orrs Island, Casco Bay, off the coast of ME