Echoes from Orchard's Glen: An Appalachian Story of the Faith of Seven Generations

By Larry R. Pirkle

There among the mist-enclosed foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, comes a sweeping, powerfully moving account about the enduring faith of a pioneer family, every bit as pure and simple as this enchanted countryside itself. The Farnsworths were widely recognized as survivors, with more grit and gumption than the black-bottomland soil they took their living from. During the demanding decades that followed their initial arrival, their descendants never lost their abiding faith in each other and in their Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

Mrs. Sarah Abigail Farnsworth Landrey, the fourth generation to reside on this land, had lived a Godly life. Extraordinary she had witnessed crop failures, droughts, floods, wars, tornados and personal heartbreak. Raising nine children while working the land along-side her parents and husband, today at ninety-five, she was preparing for still one more long awaited appointment. To be gathered unto her people. How did this matriarch realize that today was the day she was going home? Wellcause she had a visitor in the wee-hours of that morning. The morning of the tenth-day of March, in the year of our Lord, 1975.

Here in the white-clapboard farmhouse her grandparents constructed, in the bed she was actually born in, she was awakened to a gentle sound that at first sent chills up her spine. Once she became aware of just who was in her bedroom, and why they were there.she would never feel more assured that this faith she had always clung too, would truly see her though this final journey. Believing that Everyone is born for some em, some purpose.

Filled with humor and moments that will move you to tears, you will be transfixed as the descendants of Mrs. Landrey ponder on precious recollections that morning, still clinging to their unwavering relationship with the Lord.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jul 18, 2017
• ISBN: 9781512766776

Larry R. Pirkle

Larry R. Pirkle has been a contributing writer for poplar magazines since 2005. His work has appeared in Country magazine, Country-Extra and Out Here: a Tractor Supply publication. His story, My Neighbor’s House was selected for the keepsake book Country, Heart & Soul, commemorating Country magazine’s 25th anniversary. Pirkle is the author and illustrator of five inspirational books, including Of the Seeds They’ve Sown, a collection of his most popular short stories. Some of his subjects include front porch swings, saying grace at the table, and Collie dogs. Raised at the side of what he calls “Masters of the Faith”, he credits his mother and maternal grandparents for cementing his raw-bone, born-again Christian values. He lives with his family and animals as part of the sixth generation to reside in the Etowah River district of Dawson County, situated in the beautifully forested foothills of Northeast Georgia.

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ECHOES FROM

Orchard’s Glen

An Appalachian story of the Faith of seven generations

LARRY R. PIRKLE

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Copyright © 2017 Larry R. Pirkle.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Scripture quotes are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-5127-6679-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-6678-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-6677-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016919782

WestBow Press rev. date: 06/14/2017

For those of my kindred who were only afforded a short time here, still whose very lives fulfilled God’s perfect purpose. Also for Mama, and her steadfast devotion, ensuring a Christian upbringing for her children. And for Gladys Pat Austin…whose special account gave me the ideal in the first place.

Lest we ever forget…

Preface

A rock gatherer. Yeah, I have to confess, I’m a gatherer of rocks. Rocks of all kinds. All shapes and sizes. Various members of my family have been known to have this same fascination with collecting rocks and smooth stones, usually this attraction will taper off sometime around the age of ten or eleven. Mine however has lasted a lifetime. And I am not one bit ashamed of it. Now I may be wrong, but my guess is that we surely must have gotten this habit from back when God told Joshua to have twelve men out of each tribe of Israel to pick up a stone from the midst of Jordan and then set them as a memorial to when the waters were miraculously cut off as they passed over.

There are moss covered rocks here and there all about the yard of my childhood home as proof to this being a gatherer of rocks. I loaded most of them into our little red Rex Jet wagon, cause back in those days we had no such thing as a wheel barrow, and hauled them step by step, stone by stone from different locations on our place. There are many a special stone among this great collection, some that even have a story. Several came from other places such as river banks or creek beds we visited while seeking a cool spot during the unquenchable heat of summer. Quite a few traveled from the last place my beloved grandparents lived. One small thumb sized smooth stone resting in a clay pot a-top rich bottomland dirt was plucked up out of the middle of the road which they use’ta travel to their cherished ol’place there near the Etowah River. There is a light gray rock, about hand size, in the corner of the windowsill of my bedroom that my nephew Gilbert brought me from the driveway of the local livestock sale-barn. He was about seven years old then and had thought of me when he exited their vehicle that day, that hunk of gravel is worth more to me than any gold nugget ever found in the hills of nearby Dahlonega. Mostly these stones were placed around the house or in-circle trees and plants that need a little protection. They line walking paths, some straight, some with a gentle curve around the yard and gardens as well. That was the purpose in moving them in the first place, having admired many old stone walls around several of the clapboard farmhouses dotting the countryside of my youth.

Now I have plenty more hobbies than just collecting rocks and there is one that I just became aware of as I began writing this book. And that is…I am a collector of stories. Sort of like’a story steward so to speak. I treasure real to-life old-timey tales, especially the ones which demonstrate how the good Lord has made a way for someone during some hardship or trial. I’ve always been very keen on learning just how they made it through. Now I was blessed to listen in on such stories as a young country kid growing up in the presents of a God fearing mother and grandmother. Others I had even witnessed myself. Many of’um were perceived as we waited at long lengths in doctor offices and waiting rooms or listened intently to them while setting upon soldering hot car seats when the waiting room was full. Another sweet collecting place was out under the shade-trees on Sunday afternoons while lying upon quilts, looking up towards the heavens with the soft voice of my Mama….recollecting. I accumulated several more while watching a gentle pair of aged hands quilt as I rocked for hours on end…listening. Some were even being gathered while us-kids sat at the edge of the porch or on the front steps, watermelon juice running down our elbows, while the grown-ups were talking. As the slightest breeze flirted the ancient maple tree leaves high over-head. Even as a young’un I thought I was clever as a fox in knowing just what to ask to keep’em tellin. With innocent-eyes widen, I was captivated. And I remember pondering on the highlights in some of these stories for the remainder of the day. Unknowingly, this is when I would be storing, cementing the details in my child’s brain.

There was just something stirring about some things I had heard and others that I had seen which sort’er…begged to be remembered…for the Lord’s sake. Tales about my kindred, ones long since departed, some that had lived long productive lives and others that only survived a few years. The best ones spoke of a legendary faith. What I recognized as legendary…anyway. How these sometimes gripping stories encouraged my fledgling Christian heart and were a mighty source of strength to me during those sometimes troublesome years. There was something to this faith that I had watched my family cling to time and again thru great struggles and sorrows, and I knew it to be steadfast and true. You could just feel it when my mama and grandma talked. And it wasn’t ours alone. But others had this faith as well….there were gentle friends and coworkers that I listened with tear-filled eyes as to just how this great God of mine had…brought them thru the fire. That kind’a got me to thinking, could this confidents in one’s faith, faith like my mama and grandma and granddaddy had really be something you could pass on? As you simply share life’s ups and downs? Something to hand down to your kindred, not like the color of your eyes or hair, but a testimony…one in which to impart that would be so strong and committed that it would encourage a whole new generation to seek to walk the straight and narrow way? Could it give them the desire to consistently pursue a closer walk through life with ….the Lord, and to depend upon Him, ever hour of every day?

Nine years ago when the notion first came to me concerning the very heart of this story, it was to appear as a one, perhaps two page account. Short, to the point and hopefully inspiring. Yet as I commenced to write, some days for only ten minutes, others maybe an hour or more, I began to realize that the Lord had other plans in this telling. And it would quickly cover more than a page. Reminiscence of many of those faith filled, rural life stories which I had collected and safely placed here and there in the back of my mind, (like those rocks around our place) this story transformed, with a whole new meaning from the one that I had initially planned. More than anything else, it would become a novel about an extraordinary faith of a fictional family that had also become legendary.

So now let me take ye back, back to that morning. To a time…not really all that long ago. To where the sweet-apple trees are swelling with blossoms, to a peaceful river valley draped in a misty-glow. Once you find yourself there, in Orchard’s Glen, I sincerely pray that this story will beckon you to seek a deeper yearning to know the Lord. And even perhaps, if you haven’t already, begin a legacy of faith of your very own.

Remember the days of old, consider the years of many generations:

ask thy father, and he will shew thee, thy elders, and they will tell thee.

Deuteronomy 32:7

Contents

Preface

1     Her Start

2     Dandy

3     A Visitor

4     The East Window

5     The Bird-Bath

6     A Cur-ous-Lot

7     As the Sparks fly Upwards

8     Whispered Prayer

9     Dishwater and a lost Lass

10   Just as I am

11   Jesse needed a Friend

12   3R-2384

13   Grace is here

14   Right there… by the Bananas

15   Aaron walked with God

16   The Firing Day

17   A Common Prayer

18   Better felt than Told

19   A True Token

20   Assurance Sweet

About the Author

Tell ye your children of it,

and let your children tell their children,

and their children…another generation…

Joel chapter 1, verse 3

Fear not, O land; be glad and rejoice:

for the LORD will do great things.

Joel 2, v. 21

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Chapter 1

Her Start

A s one sets in-to tell the story of land. A piece of land. Farmland especially. You ’bout have to start with a family. The family… credited with homesteading the place. And in that telling…the land will remember. Even after her people have long forgotten. Now there’s plenty ’a folks here’ bout Lawson County and out of it, which are pretty familiar with the account that the first pioneer family to settle’ along this vast stretch of river bottoms was’a family of Farnsworths. Whether this knowing comes from a personal experience of being acquainted with the family, or perhaps just as a customer though their vast business endeavors. It may very-well be due to the fact that even to this day, there’s a right-smart amount of this rural community…who still know their neighbors by name. Doesn’t really matter if…that neighbor lives ten miles away. And it’s more likely than not, that they’d be kinfolks. Kin in some shape, form or fashion, tracing their roots back through the ages to those original sett-lers. By chance they’re not related…y-then they are in all likelihood living on land that the Farnsworth’s owned at one time or another, maybe even in a dwellin-house or outbuilding they had constructed.

But now if you ain’t from round this part of the country…then it’s right fairly possible that you’re not acquainted with this legendary tale a-tall. You may have never-even hee-ard tell of the Farnsworths before. Well then neighbor….you’re in for a treat…cause I’m a-fixin to enlighten ye on just how this family came to homestead here. Sort’er paint ye a picture, of how they covered many a weary-mile from upstate South Carolina. Traveling mostly on foot with one knocked-knee-d mule hitched to a two wheeled hay-waine loaded down with what little earthly belongings they owned. Tagging along behind was their milk-cow and her speckled-heifer calf.

The reasoning behind such an undertaking they say, is that this family of four was scouting for a new place. More importantly…a new begin-in. They’as coxed into making this expedition by a smooth talking Ing-en trader, claiming that the land was-a’plenty and the natives were peaceable.

This Mrs. Farnsworth, Torr’ie as she was called, was known as a shy beauty with shinning emerald-green eyes. Eyes which showed tiny flecks of hazel deep within, complimenting a narrow oval-face framed by long strawberry locks of hair loosely gathered to the back of her head. A tan muslin cottage-cap held most of her hair in place. With those kind of looks, she could-a had her pick of any of the young bucks in the township, but instead she hopelessly fell for the kindly Mr. Farnsworth, some fourteen years her senior. For it was Mr. Farnsworth…who had brought her happiness…from the very first moment. She’d come to make his acquaintance upon arrival at the rice plantation there along wind-swept John’s Island where he occupied the job as chief overseer. Thomas was his first name, but kinsmen and acquaintances alike called him Orie, short for Orem, his middle name. This son of a moorland-herdsmen and bright Irish-miss was a stocky little-feller in stat-ure, giving the impression of being all but inde-structible. Almost three full inches shorter than the fair Torri, a problem that never bothered her, but he made up for this deficiency in height by never being a man to set idol. Some even went as far as to claim that he must’a been born-a-working, and the bowing of his stout legs as he aged was shore-proof that this tale was not far from the truth.

Even after four blissful years of marriage, Orie still took great pleasure from time to time in the simple bouts of staring at his striking-bride. Getting that slightly winded feeling he likened to the experience he had on a very wild ride taken years back, when the master of the plantation’s stallion jumped the fence with him astride, tracking a country mile before the blood-bay steed finally decided to halt. And as her husband, he knew fairly early on that Ms. Torri was much more than just another pretty face, for he was acquainted with the deep indwelling kindness and strength, which lay within her faith filled heart.

For most of his early years, Orie had-been what some of the towns people called a bit of a flirt, flashing a wide smile whenever he found himself in the company of the ladies. Yet never in all of his memory, had he ever longed for anything to be completely his…as he did the day he laid doting eyes upon this Scottish lass.

The Lord had richly blessed in bestowing upon him most-every man’s utmost dream, a baby daughter the very image of her angel-faced mother, and a son….so much like his father as a babe that he wept at the sight. The couple had an impressive future there on the island if they had remained, the shady overseer’s cottage right along the sleepy inter-costal waterway was more that adequate. With work a-plenty for Orie, and the gifted baking skills of the Misses were in high demand at that time up at the big plantation house. But for hidden reasons unknown to anyone except the young Mrs. Farnsworth had so ordered the decision for this journey inland, secretly hoping in her very soul to never again feel the salty breath of the sea upon her dainty - face for as long as she lived, and even that…wouldn’t be long enough.

Now on this particular day of their journey south, as they fought thru the thicken undergrowth of primeval forest covering these Appalachian foothills, all the expectations they had-had for their future here seemed as distant as the sandy Carolina coastline they had left behind. Four long days had passed since they’d come upon a clear opening in the woods; a feeling of being a bit hemmed in settled upon the clan, even though the path they followed was far from sketchy. The ragged yellowing-map was charted fairly well as could be expected for the times, being that it was drafted on the soften-cured hide from a white-tailed deer.

So here they were, somewhere near the end of June, one could only imagine how stifling the heat was as it filled the deepest parts for the woodlands, rising like vapors ascending from the top of a cook-stove to the higher elevations. One of them-days that was bout-near hard to draw a breath. And to add to the misery, anyone spending much time at all with nagging nats and fies tormenting about your face and neck would honestly sympathize with the almost dazed craziness the past ten miles had become as they traveled along straddling the bed of a dry-spring.

Ms. Torri was still recovering from a bad-cough which she and the young’ins had picked up as they came across the mountains. It had been a rough case from the very start, fretting poor Mr. Orie into many a-sleepless night, seeing how a third wee-Farnsworth would be here in a very short twelve weeks. Plus the continued yearning to move on sh-ore didn’t hope’her none.

By midafternoon this family of pilgrims sensed an advancing thunderhead yonder in the west, as an angry squall begin tossing the towering oak and maple tree-tops clinging there to the east facing ridge they were skirting with each brisk burst. Then came a welcoming cooling which happened much too swiftly for the grown ups, both knowing that an ill wind blows no good. The trail took a demanding descent, winding ’round enormous boulders with moss covered shoulders jutted between thick trunked timber. Cautiously they made their way as the black-cloud persisted to close the window of the now setting sun.

What a cloud it was.

Showers began in ripping torrents through the huge stands of poplar and oak, hickory and pine, stamping out all light. Pebble size hail-stones picked any exposed skin like stinging wasps while ripping leaves from the towering canopy above. Shore-ly the family of ol’Noah would have fully understood their plight and the quickening beat of their wholesome hearts. Mr. Orie, with his premature iron-gray beard stiffly coming to the middle of his chest, hurriedly erected a makeshift shelter around the hay-wain, by breaking branches from a thicket of white pines in an effort to protect his brood. The babies cries echoed thru the darkness with each clap of thunder for most of the night as the unrelenting storm angrily rumbled down around them.

Mr. Orie prayed for God’s safe keeping. What would the dawn bring? And why on earth…he pondered, had he ever agreed on start-in such an undertaking. At that moment he felt a reassuring warmth radiating from the memory of his wife’s pleading to see mountains and moorlands reminiscent of those she knew from her youth.

Then, sometime just before first light, all became calm…refreshing calm. Only the familiar cooing-song of a lone morning dove could be heard in the distance. A song more welcomed than any sound the travelers had heard in recent memory. A-waking to find them-selves at the very edge of the piney-thicket, opening up to a cleared grassy-valley floor, stretching out as far as one could see. The air now much more aromatic with the rain refreshed earth. And there…all across the vale to the river beyond were golden dandelions emerging through the meadow-grass, highlighted by tiny raindrops glistening like diamond dust in the shining rays of the rising sun, as if the good Lord himself had again spoken these precious words, Let there be light….

The magnitude of this scene reached way down deep to capture the very soul of the weary couple. Ms. Torri’s first words in nearly three whole days were then spoken to Mr. Orie. Praise’ be, this be it….t’is th- place. as she wiped crimson strands of damp hair from around her lightly freckled-face. They exchanged smiling eyes with one another. Placing her hands deep into the pockets of her chestnut-brown overcoat, for there in her right hand… she grasps tightly to a wee-ewe lamb figurine, carved from the limb of a dead cypress tree.

What a find indeed, this land…an untouched pioneer’s delight. To most folks, this was one fine place to simply haphazardly stumble upon, still the Farnsworths would never swall-er that in a hundred-million years….they’was led…to these bottoms. This was the very spot in which they would help settle, ultimately calling it one of the sweetest words to ever slip as a soft whisper from the lips of any Scotchmen….any Irishman…or any true Southerner…

Home.

By the end of that day the soften-orange beams sprouting from the sunset benevolently danced upon the couple as they humbly knelt by the simple hay-wane, returning thanks again for safe passage.

Yes Sir….now that’s pretty much how they say she started; I mean that’s how they tell she got her beginnings. Y-this very river valley became known as Farnsworth Bottoms, listed nonetheless by that actual name on many of the earliest maps of this region. See… a few years later, after they built th’log house and barn on the slight rise above that white-pine thicket, the eldest boy, by the name of Silas Jameson Farnsworth, up and married a pur-ty little half-Cherokee Indian girl, and her papa bestowed upon them some twelve miles…or so they say, of land….as a wedding present.

Twelve bountiful miles…over seven miles wide in places, running right along this merry river. Startin-out at just above where the big horse-shoe bend is, then flowing past the shadowy pebble-covered shoals of the widest part of the Big Savannah, on to the much deeper, darker water lined by a spectacular four mile avenue of stately water oaks.

Richest land in the county.

And this family wasted no time in filling most every lush acre with some of the tallest corn, fattest cattle, portliest pigs, and tended to Mr. Orie’s passion…..apples. These bottoms were much like a perfectly ripened yellow-meated watermelon, prime for the pick-in, ready for the enjoy-in and most of all, willing for the plant-in. The Farnsworths were a skilled and confident-hardworking clan, and with this settlen-in, helped to bring the valley into its own in an era of great abundance and increase. An increase these bottoms seemed to beg for. What a miraculous blessing indeed…for this vast expansion of land to have fallen into the hands of such capable cultivations, managing it for the full purpose it was created for in the first place.

Yet a life so pleasantly free from the outside-worry of worldly troubles, one going so perfectly smooth in its own kind of sheltered garden of Eden, is for some unknown reason or another many times bound as if by an invisible trailing-thread to a devastating storm. And this storm happened to be in the shape and form of the tragic exiting of the native Cherokees…the Farnsworth family’s closest friends and neighbors.

With several of the Farnsworth boys a-marring into many of the native families, some grew afraid for their very lives and moved on to the Texas and Oklahoma territories, leaving the ones that remained to only hope against hope that the tide would somehow turn in their favor. But young Silas didn’t have the patience to set idly-by.

So he made himself a plea.

A plea in the form of a handsome hand-written letter directed to the very governor of the great state of Georgia. In that sealed envel-ope, Silas pored out his heart and soul in beseeching the then governor, the honorable George R. Gilmer, to allow his beloved wife and four wee-toddlers to remain in the state and county of their-birth. With tear-filled eyes, Silas thanked the Lord for prayers heard….and answered the fateful day the courier arrived with the formal reply stating his request was granted, bestowing the rights of citizenship to his wife and children. God had saved them from what had been for so many a journey of misery and weeping.

Still…as the seasons persisted to come and go, years added upon years, a steady stream of the Farnsworth children and grandchildren continued to grow up and head west, some for the vast open country yet to settle…some for the newly discovered gold in that region. Each following an invisible pull, much like the natural migratory drive which guides the winged fowl north in the spring, south in the fall. The difference being that with a flock, there’s no heartbroken family left behind.

Now even with the deep forest-covered remoteness of the Blue Ridge Mountains, offering her illustrious haven of shadows and lore, the realization of the War between the States was still felt just as strong in the hearts and minds and pocketbooks of the beloved in this peaceful glen. And like everywhere else in the south, it caused the kindred to dig deeper than ever before to find the resources or as folks ’round here call it gumption to endure. Th-ar at the end…those murder-some Yankee troops terrorized and burnt their way along as they marched only twenty mile-from-this very settlement, as the women-folk anxiously buried their tableware and what precious little valuables they owned, ever praying while holding their breath…and their babies close… till word was at long last received that it was finally…finally over. When all was said and done, a-couple of the Farnsworth grandsons were decorated….a-couple more received their everlasting rewards…there on the battlefield.

Gradually by the conclusion of the eighteen hundreds, the name of this handsome place began to change a little; folks started calling a good-portion of it the Landrey Bottoms upon the marriage of one of Silas’s granddaughters, Sarah Abigail to a-Mr. Aaron P. Landrey, a tall-strapping young dairy man from up towards Glassy Mountain. This union provided to be just what the doctor ordered for a sense of happiness to return to a valley shrouded in sorrow for so long.

Yeah, Landrey Bottoms wouldn’t nigh-as-hard to say, and locals sure took a-lik-in to Ol’Landrey and Ms. Surie, as they were fondly called. That sprawling two-story farmhouse they remodeled together just over the way from the original log cabin is still…one of the purty-est sites in the county. They’d be wagons by the dozen lined up all a-bout the place, as a passle a-folks would gather from miles around for corn husk-in as well as singing and pickin on that deep porch come apple-ing time. And you knew that you’as all as welcome as could-be, as welcome like the flour-es in May.

Y… Ms. Surie’s favorite saying was Ya’ll come.

Lord-a-mercy, what fun times!

Meandering as a scarlet ribbon along the river, the red dusty-dirt path through here has always been called Orchard’s Glen Road. Most likely because of the great number of wild crab-apple trees found growin-along the upper edge of the bottoms when they first settled here. Widening somewhat here and there, still becoming quite narrow at times, leaving a lane barely ample enough for single traffic. The road is actually in truth an ol’Indian trail, and there are places where it skirts so close to the river that one can view directly down into the darken-mirrored water, whether you’re traveling by horseback, wagon or automobile. That Mr. Orie planted some of the very first tame-apples in the state on the gentle sloping sides of the highest points, right’ cheer above this glen. Some of the ones still growing today were grafted from that very stock. By sons and grandsons with like passions. Stout trees, planted by even stronger folks.

So… that’s-er story. I mean that’s how they say it all began… And any true Souther-ner knows full-well that a story, one that’s good-nuff for the tell-in, no mater how short or how long, has bout-near got to have a good start-in place…a foundation so to speak. To build on.

And what a foundation this was.

This is her beginnings, but it is nowhere near’er end.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days

of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.

Psalm 23:6

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Chapter 2

Dandy

B rushing against the thicken glass of the east window pane, a twisted apple tree limb shows new signs of life all along the aged knobs of the branch, as a cool spring-breeze quickly pushes dense fog past in misty waves.

O’timers will tell’ye…that o’dogs and old folks go home in the spring and fall. she whispers, bed-covers pulled up to her chin.

Oddly, she finds comfort in these words this morning.

She was born in this bed. The tenth out-a ten children. In a sturdy bed of solid chestnut-wood with its thick-headboard rais-in five-foot high from the floor. Her and her man married fairly young, and then spent their lives here, farming the bottomland. Being the kindly daughter she was, she seen- after her Mama and Papa, and when they passed, this two-story farmhouse and nine-hundred and seventy-seven