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J immy and I woke up as soon as the sun hit the side of our new house. We ran out in our jammies and met our Dad at the head of the path beside the mill pond. I yelled as loud as I could. Just yelled. "Don't," my Dad laughed. "You'll wake up the neighbours!" "We don't have any neighbours. Nobody can hear us!" I yelled, then twirled and fell in the grass, reveling in the freedom of our new home. My brother flopped down beside me, chewing a long piece of grass. Dad chuckled and squatted beside us. "Hey you're right," he agreed. He smiled and closed his eyes. He turned his face to the sun and took a deep breath of fresh country air. That was the first of many wonderful childhood memories growing up at Apps' Mill. I loved exploring the pathways and forests that wound through the 40 acres that became my home. There was a mill pond beside our house and Whiteman's Creek bordered the property. We had a homemade rowboat that often became a pirate ship. Carp, pike, and giant snapping turtles called our pond home. My dad sometimes raked in a turtle by mistake when he was clearing the shore of debris. He'd call us and we would run down to watch as the snapping reptile held stubbornly on to the rake then, with a resentful glance, let go and made his way uncontested back to the pond. To this day, I blame those turtles for eating Donald and Daisy, my pet ducks. The pond was a gathering place for neighbourhood kids to skate in winter and for local farmers to fish in summer. I still have memories of Don and Stan, two farmers from up the road, catching pike in our pond. They were the ones who 20