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taught me how to clean fish and how to respect a pike's sharp teeth. In the spring I would catch tadpoles and raise them in a huge tank beside the mill until they grew legs, and then I'd release them back into the pond. I remember moving my bed to the window in my bedroom and falling asleep as I watched the lightning bugs in the marsh, lulled by the nighttime "galunks" of the courting bull frogs. The mill was turned by water diverted to the pond by a dam on Whiteman's Creek. According to local lore, the dam had been damaged by Hurricane Hazel in 1954. There was also a stream that entered from a cluster of springs that bubbled up from the ground. The springs were mesmerizing. We'd often go up there and Dad would clear out the debris to keep the stream running into the pond. The mill itself was a huge building, three floors filled with machinery that whispered of the past and served for many games of hide and seek. A robin came for years and built her nest on a windowsill on the second floor. We would spy through the window as her eggs hatched and she patiently fed her naked little babies. Coming home from school our bus dropped us off at the top of the hill, and as we walked the mile home we passed tobacco fields, abandoned orchards, and Honourable Ross MacDonald's house. When he was home he'd wave from his garden. I'll always remember his floppy old hat. We used to stop to pet the big work horses in the orchard resting after a long day of pulling tobacco boats. They were massive, gentle beasts. The apples there were such a treat in the fall, for them and us. My friend Paula and I would often saddle up my horses 21