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Beautiful words don’t do justice to Sarah’s House of Maine in Holden. When I decided to begin the hyperbaric oxygen therapy, Kent and I launched a search for either a hotel that would not only offer us the guarantee of lodging for three months, but would also be affordable.
Our teachers nous ont mentis. It has always bothered me that so-called St. John Valley French is sometimes almost barely considered to be French by some Francophiles.
My husband and I recently re-watched a BBC production called “Blood of the Vikings.” No, it’s not the latest Stephen King horror movie, but a report of the archaeological and DNA search for traces of the Viking presence in England, Scotland and Ireland.
All genealogists avidly use the census for information about their ancestors. Starting in 1790 the U.S. censuses were taken every 10 years. By 1850 all those in a household were listed and in 1880 the relationships were spelled out. What’s not to like about any of that?
Rat-tat-tat, rat-atat-tat goes the automatic rifle. And the world descends into madness. What if I were lying on the street of my beloved hometown with my blood pooling about me? And my last shuddered, shocked and unbearably painful thoughts were set gazing at the blue-cloud-puffed sky ordained by Thee?