There’s a little old house that sits right off Highway 89, the paint is peeled off as it’s weathered with time. I really don’t know it’s history, or why it’s so small, but that doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter at all. There’s an old Elm tree growing close by, it’s branches still reaching for the sky. I’m sure children once laughed and played there, I know it’s true, ’cause the old swing still hangs there.

I wonder if the old house feels lonely and sad, seeing all the changes and wishing for all the life it once had? I wonder how much longer it will stand, with all the progress made by man? Seems there’s no more room for anything old, or all the wonderful stories still left untold. You’ll always make my heart feel warm as I pass by “that little old house” right off Highway 89-