The image of a grave stone fills the screen: Unknown Cowboy 1890. The next slide features a broken chimney.
A whitehaired woman turns to address the group. “This is all that is left of my grandparents’ grocery store, the only brick building in Grey Mule.”
This is my first time attending a meeting of the local historical society. It is also the first time I’ve heard of Grey Mule, a ghost town not far from where I live.
I retired from full-time ministry a year ago. I now live outside a rural town of about 300 residents. The main street has a mural of Lonesome Dove’s Gus McCrae astride a horse. He is thinking to himself, “I love this town.” Each time I drive by that mural, I nod in agreement.
Life in this town feels like a family reunion. The parish overflows with love, nearby canyons provide beauty for the soul and the surrounding plains proclaim the vastness of God’s Creation. Despite these sunny elements, however, the future carries the chill of winter. Storefronts are shuttered and abandoned homesteads haunt the countryside.
My disquiet is magnified by the fact that smalltown life has been dislodged from public discourse. Discussion about such things as global trade, economies of scale and advancements in technology seldom mention collateral impacts on flyover country.
I want to shout: “I love this town!”
How I wish more folks would know the close ties of a rural parish, the vigor of 4-H clubs, the social value of local feed stores, volunteer fire departments and, yes, even historical societies.
Thanks to a group of local history buffs, I now find myself gazing across the open plains at the close of the day, thanking God for my community and praying that the legacy of towns like Grey Mule never fade away.