Mason jars lined up on a shelf. Lids rusty. Cobwebs strewn over them. Dust had settled. 

One by one, he took a jar and  broke it on the concrete floor. Pieces of glass mixed with mouse droppings. Tin lids tossed to the side. 

In autumn she’d can vegetables from the garden. Turnip greens, spinach, corn, tomatoes, rutabaga, and Hungarian peppers placed in jars for winter. The son remembered the taste of each. He thought of coming home from school each day and gathering goods for dinners. Down in the cold basement collecting remnants of summer. Mom yelled from the top of the stairs that she wanted this jar or that. She was always yelling.

The family was large. Three sons and two daughters. Dad had left before all reached into their teen years. Mom said he went off with some trapeze artist from the circus. His uncle later told him it was the bottle he chased.

John was the youngest. And he was left with the house and the land after mom had died. Billy, the oldest, was killed in a farming accident by way of a tractor.  Eddie got married real young and started a family of his own. Loretta took off with a Marine, and Bell was seen on the corner in town supporting her habits. God knows what she was involved with. But, it was John who took over the family farm. And now, as he stood in the basement, breaking glass, he began to laugh.

Two hundred acres. He thought. Two hundred acres are enough for a nice housing addition and a good amount of cash. I can leave all this behind, he said. Leave it all behind. His mom’s unhappiness. Daddy’s leaving. Billy dying. The rest taking off. He smiled. Why not? Everybody else was doing it. Dolan’s farm had been sold. Smitty’s, too. Now, I guess it was my turn. This, he said. This is what we leave behind.