Situated on the bend of a horseshoe-shaped dirt road that intersects a back country highway is the place I called home as a child. Here my elderly father raised his two girls without the help or companionship of a wife.
The house is set back about 200 feet from the road, and as we saunter up the narrow dirt pathway, lined with neat rows of flamboyant orange gladiolas on each side, the tidy appearance of the small, unpainted frame house entices us to enter. Up the steps and onto the porch, we can't help but notice a high-backed rocker on one side and a bench worn smooth by age on the other. Both remind us of the many vesper hours spent here in the absence of modern-day entertainment.
Turning the door knob and entering the parlor is like taking a step back in time.