Thursday, March 15, 2012
FROM IMAGINED RICHES TO THEFT IN ONE DAY
It was the spring 1943 and the smell of fresh dirt, and horse manure mingled with honeysuckle and seven-sisters wild roses made the air heavy. The local farmers voices familiar to all in the neighborhood firmly call, gee, hah and whoa as they guide their horses along the evenly terraced roes of young corn, cotton and hay. This is so familiar I would be home anywhere it happened. We were indeed home again. Daddy had built Momma a store building. It was being stocked now they called it. They were...
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