Everything about that short and happy life in Linnsburg seemed to be a defining affirmation that the 'good old days' really did exist. These stories I have to tell are the stuff of dreams. A dream, of course, has only one perspective -- that of the dreamer. Yet when my older brother, Wayne, and i sit down on his front porch on a summer evening, with redwing blackbirds swooping, diving, and trilling above the willows, and a valley tabernacle chorus of cicadas begins to rise in a screech of insect voices, joined by a base section of croaking frogs, a Linnsburg story has a way of calling to us from some ethereal place where boyhood dreams abide. A thought comes to us, a reminder of a long-ago chapter in our lives when the world was all in order. Then, as in a time before men put their histories down in writing, the storytelling begins.
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