Yesterday we had a view of the neighborhood in which we lived back when. Here is the family seated in front of the parsonage. Sister, Daddy, Me, and Mama.
This village is the site of my earliest memories, as we moved there when I had just turned one, and we moved away the day before my fifth birthday.
Behind the house was a wheat field. I well remember the threshing crew cutting the wheat, carrying the sheaves to the steam powered threshing machine. Beyond this field was the railroad track on which the interurban cars ran.
The goat was tethered behind the house, and there was a shed for shelter when she needed to get out of the rain. It was on the back porch where I fell and cut my right hand when the glass I was carrying broke. The scar has migrated up my wrist and currently dwells four inches above the base of the palm.
Not all of my early memories were pleasant ones, but many were. I mentioned the magic radio in yesterday's article.
My sister deals with parsonage living in her blogpost today. You'll enjoy reading it.