Down a dry dirt road, an old house sits beside a knotted Oak Tree. Children in overalls with bare feet run and play. An old tire swing sits tied to I Willow tree branch. It has seen better days having been swung in a thousand times. Around a bend in the old road, sits a string of mail boxes, visited each day by the mail carrier, he always has time to stop and chew the fat a while with the old widow folk before going back on his way. Beyond that there is an old iron clad bridge where people go to sit and talk, or to cast a line in the river as it flows slowly by. All of this is off the secondary highway, down rural route 2 a dusty memory in my mind.