In her seventies regal, tall, and skinny she hoed and planted and weeded her half acre garden. It was all she had left. Scratching mosquito bites, swatting flies, her clothing soaked with sweat; snuff trails crossed her wrinkles from the corner of her mouth to her chin as she prayed to the wind in her Indian tongue, but the wind seldom heard her pleas. Her hoeing done for the day, bees making their last flight, and chickens on the roost. She searched the sky at the whine of the plane and cursed it - the source of all her ills - grandpa gone, her penniless, alone in a three room shack fending for herself. Grandma 1942 Alabama back wood country.