Laid out in alkali soil, Grandpa’s farm flourished anyway. The land sat flush up against the foot of the butte and had little on it when Grandpa bought it, their first home the chicken coop sitting on the land. Grandma scrubbed and white-washed every inch, tacked flour-sack muslin on the walls, Mama said, and they moved in.
Grandma always set a pretty table, so Mama told me. She used her whitest linens, put out her best cooking and her best China for visitors, never once apologized for living in a chicken coop.
Grandpa got the house built the next year. Their own house, with fence, gate, and a black dog named Collie to keep Mama in the yard. They housed the school teacher there, too, partly because they had room, mostly because of Grandma's cooking.
It must have been a nice place, set right on that road I drove down not so many years ago, looking for it. I never found it, wasn't even sure I had the right road. All that's left now of Bramwell is a railroad crossing and a cemetery.
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