Gleeson was once a copper mining town, flourishing from 1900 to 1939. For the last seventy years it has been a ghost town. A couple of ruined buildings and its old cemetery are all that is left of it. In that cemetery, I found the grave of Paul Christiansen. He was born in 1931 and died in 1938, just about the time that Gleeson itself died. His grave is strewn with remembrances, left, no doubt, by visitors who were moved by the death of a seven year old boy, buried on a windswept hill outside of a town that was no more. The most touching remembrance is a figure of an angel, wrapped in a blue scarf. It seems to be sleeping here as soundly as the boy it commemorates. The mid-day light is harsh, the colors raw and unforgiving. They seem appropriate for both the purpose and place.