Linda remembers living history.
Aunt Ader’s House was reminiscent of the two pictured here.
I had no idea who Aunt Ader was, or that her name should actually have been pronounced Ada, but her old farm house was a wonder. Uncle C H, my Aunt Jenny’s on-again off-again husband apparently enjoyed some claim to it, because over the course of my childhood, several of my relatives rented it, probably when they’d fallen on hard times. It stood high on a hill surrounded by several huge oaks. A rutted red-dirt drive curved its way up toward the house, dusty in summer and rutted deeply in rainy weather. In the spring and early summer weeds sprigged up between the tire tracks, kept short courtesy of the undercarriage of the vehicles making their way up the hill. Though Aunt Ader’s forebears had been prosperous landowners a couple of generations back, the…
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