It was deserted. Neglected. Dreamy.
My fascination with old homes must have begun -
I'm not sure. In the womb? When I was knitted together by a God who singled me out to be a one and only. As did He to you.
In the tenth grade Mrs. Neely asked us to curl our tongues. I couldn't. I still can't. She said it was genetics. Mendelian inheritance. Now they say not so much. Environment plays a part. Go figure. What'd we know thirty-five years ago? Not much, apparently.
Attached ear lobes? Detached? Genetics. Recessive inheritance.
Dimples? Dominant genes.
Right handed? Left handed? Genetics.
Clasp your hands. Left thumb on top? Or right thumb? Genetics? Jury's still out on that one.
Love of deserted buildings? Must be genetics.
She found a mystery buried in the barn. It was a tale no one tells. The young girl married and then - not? No one knows the whole story. Or at least no one's talking about it in this one red light mountain town. It's been a shush tale for a half century.
An old ring box. An old photo. Who is the mystery man and who is he?
And then there's always the time spent in Paris.
A pretty raunchy novel buried in the hay.
Oh her imagination was running wild. That great big beautiful smile and spilling ideas and webs of deceit and . . . maybe murder?
Aren't we incredibly made? Knitted together by God who created this, the Gerenuk-
and this, the Amazonian Royal Flycatcher-
and this, the Sunda Colugo-
So there's a little imagination running wild on a beautiful lazy mountain afternoon?
No harm? No foul - play . . . baby bones?
