This passage sets the stage.
It’s often late at night on a dark country road when people and places, both remembered and imagined, become the sparks that light the memory defining our lives.
As my wife and I glide through the black night on Union Cross Church Road, we cross a small creek, and it hits me. I see the long-gone millpond, the house with five fireplaces, and the mill itself. I see the shadows of three young girls, my mother and her two sisters, picking beans in their garden. Next, I remember the place as it was when I was young, an old, crumbling concrete dam with trees growing in the former millpond.
The memory fades as fast as it comes, and the dark road continues on into the night.
There is more information about our upcoming book at my View from the Mountain site.
Our technological infirmity 
