It’s a scene Norman Rockwell would have liked. We see an old hand-dug well, a corncrib, and an outhouse. A fine old cedar leans back as if taking a gander at my camera and me. We time travel here where a glorious vestige of the glorious past lingers. Why there’s even the skeletal frame of an old school desk propped against what seems a wishing well, and what do I wish for? A return to simpler times.

In forays throughout my Southland of back roads, I come across remainders of simpler times. I find a lot of joy in them. How uplifting to see the daffodils, snowdrops, and irises the farmer’s wife planted. How sweet to see the girl’s crumbling dollhouse. Of course, I see sadness too. Abandoned churches, their pews decaying, a farmhouse leaning, leaning, leaning until that one blast of wind arrives. Who will be around to hear its final groan? Nary a soul I wager.

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