Dreaming of old churches in small towns on white days when the sky is the color of ash was a fantasy of mine, city child that I was. I thought life was better on streets like Main Street and Beechwood and Pucky Hollow than the sudden attack of sirens and horns on avenues filled with strangers and tension and sooty puddles of dirty snow. I thought how wonderful to walk where quiet back roads traveled up to heaven with a stillness as soft as music. I dreamed of feeling fulfilled by color and the flutter of birds, the somersault of fish. I wanted my own Walden Pond and I have found it.
I have found my summers, my autumns and my fireside white winters among the graciousness of small town Hortonville. When I was a child sophistication captured me. Now I am almost old and something beyond glorious has released me. When I was a child I dreamed and I dreamed and I dreamed, and when I awoke I was here.
