I stumbled across the existence of a book about a man who moved back to the farm in 1912. The family farm where his father was born. His memoirs about his life, told to his wife while he was on his deathbed.
His farm.. is our farm in an area I now know was called Irish Hollow.
My Mom has his book... somewhere.. It was given to her by our old neighbor who knew the man.
I have to read it! I knew they had cattle here from the layout of the ancient barn and the ultimate giveaway the "milk house". They had sold milk, butter, eggs and walnut trees.
So rare is the chance to find a book where you can then go out and stand where they stood, touch and see what they saw.
I will have to wait a bit before I can hunt it down. We caught that nasty cold that is floating around and it is kicking my butt. My head is so stuffy that I can imagine what it is like to live in Darth Vader's helmet. Very hard to breathe. Ah yes... good times. Many words now perforated with an additional "b" or "d". My daughter finds this amusing.
"Hey Mom, what's another word for recollections?"
"Do you mbean mbembories?"
" bah.. go to your roomb."
It is morel season around here. I really hope I get a chance to get some. Shroom hunters are very secretive folk. Many won't even share their prize hunting location with their spouse. Deer love them too, so I am keeping my fingers crossed that they don't beat me to 'em all!
Back to starting more flats. I hope you all avoid this pesky cold!