by James F. Burns
I knocked on the door, holding a bouquet of bright yellow flowers for the ministerâs daughter. Would she even remember me? The door swung open, and Miss Mathew said. âCome in, come in.â Yes, she remembered.
Miss Mathew was 86 years old and had lived her whole life in this church manse in Scotland. My wife, three sons, and I had attended last Sundayâs worship service of the Free Presbyterian Church, known as the âWee Freesâ and successor to the Seceder Church that my Scottish Lowlander family had belonged to several centuries ago.
But this is a story of biscuits and a bookâvery heavy biscuits and a very old book. Miss Mathewâs parents and siblings were long gone, and she took immense pride in showing me through the house, including the parlor with a grand piano, a white marble mantel over the fireplace, and exquisite vases balancing the pieces of heavy furniture. âI keep it just the way it was,â she said proudly.
United-kingdom
Scotland
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University-of-florida
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