I don't share much of my past in this blog. Those stories and that history is saved for my Neff Road blog. Yet I'm not sure I can separate the two for both are me, both come from the heart of girl raised on a farm in rural Ohio.

The writer in me was blessed to have such a rich history. The child in me was blessed to have experienced all that was the farm.
We are all different parents and grandparents with varied histories. With each of those histories, we have gifts, gifts to pass on, gifts to encourage. My girls will never pluck a chicken. I could only hope they might gather eggs from a nest, but it won't happen. But my girls will have a grandparent with whom to look beneath the leaves and into the sky, a grandparent who will observe and learn, a grandparent who will take a rich history and teach from it.
The little girl sat in the door of the haymow wondering what she would be when she grew up. Perhaps she would be a writer.
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