- From: Jeannette Buck [mailto:skyscribbler@zitomedia.net]
Sent: Friday, May 26, 2017 3:23 PM
To: ,,,
Subject: This Week
Some stories begin in such an unexpected and simple way.
Several months ago I posted on social media a pencil sketch of the house where I grew up. It was drawn when the house was not quite finished-- still looking raw and bare of anything but the essentials. “Res. Of C. E.Williams, Esq, 1902” is scrolled beneath the picture. In its antique frame the original hung on my great-grandmother’s bedroom wall as far back as I can remember. It was drawn, she told me, by a “traveling man” who did it in payment for supper and a bed for the night. Eventually the picture became mine.
The post got several responses, including one from the son of my cousin who grew up in Wyoming. “Is that the house where my grandmother was born?” he asked.
“Yes, it is,” I replied and immediately he answered. ”Oh, I wish I could see it!
“So,” I typed, “Come see it.”
And, that is what Clint Carlton and his wife Michele did.
Recently I learned that the Carltons, who had been traveling with their large motor coach through the south, were in Washington D C.
“Coming North?” I asked. And a few days later, they headed this way..
For three days once they had found a suitable parking spot for that big rig,
I had the joy of showing them around this place where I live. Our shared great grandmother, from whom I have gleaned so many of my stories, left us with a rich heritage.
Having thought of this part of the state as being essentially a level terrain, the Carltons were surprised at the curving and hilly roads they found. They were delighted with the beauty of these old mountains.
Once we were reasonably acquainted we discussed our family ties and family tales at length.
“I remember hearing that!” he said with a grin. Or, “Nope, I never heard that one before.”
We visited the local cemetery so that they could pay homage to Clint’s ancestors. We drove around the area in order that I could point out communities, roads and landmarks that had been part of his grandmother’s early years.
We had a meal at a restaurant in the town where his mother had been born; a place he had heard about all of his life. Neither of them were at all disappointed, they told me..
After an evening meal of pancakes with real maple syrup they were surprised to learn that I had made the syrup myself with the sap I collected from the tree in my front yard. They scraped their plates and licked their spoons and wondered where they could buy some of that good stuff. I took them to the best place I know.
The last evening that Clint and Michele could be with us we had a cousin gathering at the home where my sister lives; our old homestead; the house where his grandmother was born. We ate - a lot! Once our appetite was satisfied we began to visit in earnest. We caught up on each other’s lives and we shared our concerns. Best of all, we told stories. There is nothing much more fun than having the opportunity to tell old stories to someone who has never heard them before. I had planned to head for home before it was entirely dark. That didn’t happen. At last, however, it was time to hand out the leftovers, share hugs all around, and call it a night.
The next morning, Clint and Michele packed up and were soon on the road again.
I believe my family and I made our parents and grandparents proud that evening. We developed a strong bond with the Carltons that, no matter the miles that may separate us in the future, will not be broken. We are cousins, after all. We are family,
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