Smack Dab in the Middle

I'm a 6th generation Missourian. My multi-great grandparents were some of the first settlers in the area. Not too far from my home in Springfield, there's a church that was established by the same settlers. They're all buried in the cemetery out back. The slippery elm trees curl all around it. My cousin still works the neighboring farm. His cows are sometimes along the fence at the back of the cemetery when we visit, watching us with their enormous brown eyes. It's a peaceful place. One of the most peaceful I've ever been. It's the only place I've ever stood in life and been unable to hear the constant hum of car engines. (You don't realize you listen to it incessantly until it's gone.) My mother's parents aren't buried in this particular cemetery, but they were there for my great-grandfather's funeral. My grandfather was a pall bearer. He grew up on a farm right there, in that area.  The stories grow thick out there--as thick as the tree