He walked onto the porch of the house where we are staying, as if he was witnessing the most extraordinary miracle. He paused and gazed in evident wonderment. Blue sky, arcing overhead! The slope of the earth down to a little valley! Slow silvery river meandering at the bottom of it; foothills in the distance, covered in trees now bare of leaves! Astonishing.

There is a cemetery to our left, with headstones going back to the early 19th century. It is still active; week by week earth-moving machines still prepare to lay to rest the fathers and mothers of this long-established small-town community, who have passed. There are Mardi Gras beads draped onto some of the headstones, a touch I find hopeful and comforting. Some gravestones are decorated with American flags; perhaps these were veterans. Some now have small pumpkins nestled against them, and some have artificial poinsettias, adorning them early, preparatory to Christmas. Love, clearly, carries on; among us, as in every culture, we long to include the beloved dead in the celebrations that mark our lives.