Wanted: A Few More Good Men and Women to Chance an Arm

While going through my Dublin photos this morning to make our much procrastinated movie - not as procrastinated as Patty's posts - of our Ireland/Iceland trip, I came across a story apropos to this week's announcement of three women who share the 2011 Nobel Peace Prize.

Inside St. Patrick's Cathedral in Dublin hangs a door with a hole,


and this is the story.


In 1492, two great Irish families, the Butlers of Ormond and the Fitzgeralds of Kildare, were engaged in a bitter and bloody feud. Seeking sanctuary, Black James, nephew of the Earl of Ormond, and his men fled into the Chapter House. The Fitzgeralds followed in hot pursuit.

Their leader Gerald Fitzgerald, Earl of Kildare, realized that the fighting was out of control. Through the closed door he pleaded with Black James to accept a truce. Suspecting treachery, Black James refused to let Fitzgerald inside. Fitzgerald hacked a hole in the door and thrust his arm through as a pledge of his good faith.

This daring gesture was enough. The door opened and the two warring factions received one another in peace. Some believe that this event is the origin of the expression "to chance your arm", meaning to take the initiative. The door has become known as the "Door of Reconciliation".

William Elwood Dillow: A Man for All Seasons

When I used to pop over to my Uncle Elwood's house in Vanceburg, Kentucky to play around with his accordion, I could tell even then he was a different kind of guy. His house was filled with Mexican things and he was always reading a book or listening to the radio. In the 1950's people in this river town didn't have Mexican things in their house, much less ever seen a Mexican. But I shall get to that later. 

Elwood was Ramona's oldest brother, first born to Jacob with the blue, blue eyes, and Grace, a handsome little woman, in 1906. Vanceburg was still a bustling river town at the turn of the last century, but the Dillows and their growing family lived on a farm just outside of town. Jacob, a farmer and teacher, brought up seven well educated kids. By age two, Elwood already had a grown up seriousness needed to head this bunch of kids. 1908,

1912, Elwood, Maurice, George Jacob, He would have worked on the farm while getting his education, and Ramona recalls he started a chicken raising business on his own on the hillside behind the farmstead. He already had a confident attitude by his high school years. In the summer of 1923, while still in high school, he took a summer job at the Howell Cutting Plant making buttons, and wrote about this experience in the June 29, 1972 Lewis County Herald, Each employee stood before a machine, in design much like an engine lathe. A stepped pulley in the machine enabled the worker to determine a speed correct for the button blank that he was then cutting. Individual machines took power from overhead shafting. The employee would place a mussel shell in his hand held tong. All the while the tubular saw in the headstock was revolving. The tail stock had a wood plug movable longitudinally. As stated above, the worker moved the shell into the revolving saw by using a rachet in the tailstock. The buttons were sawed quite rapidly, many blanks being cut from the shell before it was discarded. The spool in which the saw was mounted was unique in that the tapered tubular saw was secured by a handmade key. The keying of the saw within its spool, the aligning of the spool within the head stock, the filing and jointing of the saw would at times tax the most skilled employee. As an experiment, some of the discarded shells were spread on the Vanceburg hill road. After high school, Elwood completed two years of college in preparation to be a teacher, most likely at Morehead State Teachers College, and the July 8, 1927 Portsmouth Daily Times reported the Lewis County school board had announced teachers for the rural schools for the year. Elwood was assigned to Rock Creek, a rural school upriver past Quincy. It would have been one of those one room school houses for the early grades before children were bused to a consolidated school. Commonly, the rural school teacher would board with a family in the area, returning home on the weekend if they had means of transportation. Given Elwood's ingenuity, he would have had transportation. In a letter to Ramona, he described fixing up Jacob's 1909 Ford Coupe that had been caught in a flood at the confluence of Gander Branch and Dry Run and washed a couple hundred yards downstream. "I bought the damaged Ford, put another body on it and had a serviceable auto". In 1930, he was still living at the farm with 5 younger siblings. His next younger brother, George Jacob, had died in 1925 at age 17, diabetic at a time when insulin was very new. In 1932, he married Goldia Richmond from Camp Dix back in the hills of Lewis County, also from a large family of 11 children whose Kentucky roots went back several generations, and a year later they had their only child, a daughter, Delores, "Tootsie" we called her, red haired from the Dillow side of the family. Tootsie recalls her Dad building a camper on the back of his pick up truck when she was in the third grade and traveling the family to Roma, Texas on the Rio Grande and now a center of drug trafficking, kidnappings and gruesome murders. Why did the family go to Roma in 1941, and why Roma? Tootsie recalls the purpose was for Elwood to immerse himself in Mexican culture and study Spanish. He had a Mexican lady come to the house twice weekly to tutor him in Spanish and Tootsie went to school. Roma was likely picked at random as the family drove toward Mexico and this was a rural town as far as they could go without actually going into Mexico. They stayed only 3 months, Elwood reluctantly returning as Goldia was lonely and homesick. In a February 1942 letter to Ramona soon after their return to Vanceburg - Ramona had moved to Hartford the previous year to marry Raymond - Elwood writes, Dear sister, In your last letter you asked me to tell you about our trip, stating you would be interested. In starting to tell you of our return trip I would like to remind you that Roma was located 88 miles down the river from Laredo, Texas, a city of some 40,000. First we traveled some 70 miles down river to a little Texas town called "Hidalgo" from which I crossed International bridge on foot to Reynosa, Mexico, where I purchased a small basket full of Mexican wares. Goldia reserved for herself the choice and you can't blame her. The remainder was insufficient to go around. At her home, I am told they clamored for more Mexican cigarettes. Many articles can be bought but the "turista" is compelled to pay a plenty. Much crude earthenware is offered, grass woven articles, serapes, huaraches, etc. On my return I stopped in a music store where I bought a few used records, all in Spanish or by Latin American artists. Eloise has one "Sur de Rio Grande" and on reverse "Mi Unico Amor" (My Only Love), a very beautiful and typical Mexican melody. I have a recording of the "Hermanas padilla" (Padilla sisters) which I treasure very much. It could be quite easily true local people here do not enjoy such melody - be that as it may, I enjoy some of the Mexican music, the language and think some most beautiful women can be found south of the Rio Grande. To continue with the trip - we traveled 3 days and still weren't out of Texas. But to go back a bit, we came up near the Gulf Coast, taking a side trip of some 35 miles in order to see a part of Gulf of Mexico. A glimpse at any map will show you Texas is almost land locked by long chains of islands... 85 degrees when we left the border with south wind at out back = radiator persisted in boiling over every time I was compelled to stop. It got so cold on our return in Kentucky we had to use hot water before the Ford would start. As for trouble on our entire trip we had nearly none. I had one puncture in 3500 miles... wore a pair of old tires "bald", unable to have them retread, so like many another North American, I'm in a pickle. Crossed 3 tall bridges on our return, paying first at Greenville $1.90, then 80 cents to cross Tennessee and last and least 45 cents Tyrone Bridge across Kentucky River. Texas is a large and progressive state. There one sees nearly everything. In some areas you can see countless oil wells with many tanks mammoth in size in which to store the crude, cotton lands, hard and softwood forests, experiment farms for brahmas and their crosses, beautiful highways, bridges, and luxurious roadside parks.. south of San Antonio the never ending semi-desert, a real contrast to anything to be seen elsewhere, a region apparently belonging to Texas-Mexicans. Would venture to say 95% of the people in some counties are Latins, always speaking their Spanish, not the best Spanish to be sure because time, space, and alienation from the madre Espana has resulted in many changes. Why did I come home? Simply because Goldia could not adjust herself to the desert and different people and had worried herself sick. I urged her time and again to return by bus leaving me but she would not take the step. Since her return, she's happy indeed. Toots re-enrolled in school. Goldia back on the job. Much the old routine with plenty of Kentucky winter to mix with it all. My trip was most enlightening and enjoyable, one I shall never forget, money wisely invested. For further study of the language, I may this year go to Northern Metropolitan Center where I can locate Mexican, Cuban or others. I could never get Goldia interested. War came on and I was unable to enroll Toots in Mexican schools. If you want to know anything else, ask questions. I include my last available Mexican coin. Elwood Dillow Roma, Texas, 1942, Wasn't it like the times to sign a letter to your sister with your full name, and to give her your last coin? Back in Vanceburg, Elwood went back to farming and teaching. He had his radio fixed to receive Havana, Cuba, and read his Spanish books and listened to his radio until he could no longer see or hear. He died in 1993 and is buried at Morgan Cemetery at the head of Grassy along with his wife of 61 years, Goldia.

Sweep at Western Montana State Fair

Before summer is completely gone -

Before our blog dies from lack of material -

And, before Patty gets around to writing on our Ireland/Iceland trip -

I thought I would post our winning entries at the 2011 Western Montana State Fair.

Jennifer won first place ribbons in Photography for


and from Ait Ben Haddou in Morocco,


Honorable mentions for the moth in Majorelle Gardens in Marrakkesh,


and her HomeCat (that's as in homeboy or "hommie"),


I took first place in Still Life for this spice shop in Marrakkesh,


and second place in People for these two camel herders on the road from El Er to Fes, Morocco.


Jennie tells me these first and second places were from hundreds of entries.

In addition, little Isabella took a first place in Art for an abstract piano, second place for a painting of a cactus and desert creature, third places for paintings of a chicken and abstract chalk drawing, and honorable mentions for a foil sculpture and Dragon named Steve.

Jennifer won a blue ribbon for her pickled beets, red for canned tomatoes, and yellow ribbon for strawberry jam. She won two first place ribbons for needlepoint tooth fairy pillow and crewel of garden gate with flowers. I shall have to get a photo of these, they are gorgeous.

Montana, watch out for all of us in 2012! We are getting ready for you!

Semper Semper Fi

We - my DAR buddies, that is - spent our usual Wednesday afternoon/evening cooking for the West Battalion Wounded Warriors. Let me say, if you are feeling you need a hug, cook for a bunch of Marines and there will be plenty. They certainly know how to show their gratitude.

I was looking for a new angle on photos. I mean, how many pics can you take of a bunch of ladies in red, white and blue aprons cooking? So I took a stroll through the parking lot.


Naturally, it was filled with a plethora of monster or just regular giant trucks that any self respecting Marine would be driving.

Some augmented with a macho motorcycle,


but it was the small details on the windows that belied the culture and warrior identity of the Marine.







Pray for our troops, Jesus. I could swear that's a take off of the St. James Cross in that design.

Grace Dillow, A Handsome Little Woman

Grace was our maternal grandmother, a "handsome little woman", said the Portsmouth Times in 1902 when she and Jacob with the blue, blue eyes eloped to get married. According to our mother, Grace's mother, Mary Jane, disapproved of the marriage. Why, we have not been able to imagine, and the dead don't talk. It turned out to be a long, fruitful, and happy marriage, and without it I wouldn't be writing this today.

Mary Jane had been through her share of tragedy by the time Grace was born in 1883 in Lewis County, Kentucky. When people ask what part of Kentucky you are from, you give your county - chances are unless you're from the big towns of Louisville or Lexington no one would know the hollow or farming settlement you were from. So, if you're from Lewis County, I could say I'm from out on Grassy and you would know it. If you're from Kentucky, I would say I'm from Lewis County and you would know. And if you're from anywhere else, I just say I'm from Kentucky.

Mary Jane was unmarried and widowed for three years when Grace was conceived. Family legend was that William Martin married the young widow while she was pregnant in order to give the child a legitimate name, but more than a hundred years later we have learned things did not happen that way. That, and Mary Jane's tragedies, are stories for another day.

At the time of Grace's birth, Mary Jane had come back from Illinois to Vanceburg with her two surviving young children, "Sis", age 7, and Jesse, age 4. Mary Jane was supporting her family working as a seamstress, and living next door to her father, George Caseman, who at age 53 was raising six of his children as a single parent and working as a farmer.

A History of Lewis County in 1912 described the area as "its surface is much diversified by hill and dale, and watered by many creeks whose sparkling depths, clear as crystal, are filled of fish of many kinds...a hill country with fertile valleys, the nest of the eagle and the den of the fox and mountain lion". Indeed, I can recall the neighbor men gathering at our farm to hunt down a mountain lion that had been spotted before it ate one of us kids.

In the 1880's, Vanceburg was coming out of an era of being a booming Ohio River town to being a railroad town, both means to ship out the farm products and transport West those looking for adventure or better times. In 1880, Lewis County had a population of 12,.407, almost the same as today, 289,658 cultivated acres, 2,772 males over the age of 21, 4,653 horses, 306 mules, and 4,165 hogs. Chances were you came from a farming family and married a farmer.

Mary Jane had a marriage to a farmer from Fleming County soon after Grace was born but at this time we don't know how long he stayed around. Likely he had died by the time Mary Jane married again to William Martin in 1890. Almost all 1890 US Census records were destroyed in a fire, so we don't know where the family was living at that time, but by 1900 when Grace was 17, the family was living on a farm about six miles out of Vanceburg in Valley, Kentucky, so small it no longer is identified as a town or has a post office. All left identifying Valley is the cemetery. Grace's older half-sister "Sis" and half-brother Jessie had left the home by the time of this census.

Living in Valley in 1900 was a young and good looking teacher, Jacob, who would have been Grace's teacher at Clarksburg. Jacob was the first of many generations in his family to pursue a life other than farming. He was living on his father's farm while teaching, along with five siblings and two grandchildren of Abraham and Sarah Dillow. It must have been a lively place, but perhaps a pall hung over the farm as two other children of Abraham and Sarah, Dollie and Willard, had died in the 1890's.

Grace hung out with girlfriends before she was married,


but by age 19, she and the young teacher with the blue, blue eyes had eloped. As the paper said, she was a handsome little woman.


They stayed in Portsmouth for the next two years, Grace working in the shoe factory and Jacob in a steel mill, before they dared go home to Vanceburg. By that time, they had saved money to buy a 30 acre farm outside town. "We had the only brick house around", my mother said, so Jacob and Grace must have worked hard to save their money. They had the first of seven children in 1906 and the last in 1922, all born at the homestead. Mary Jane lived nearby across Dry Run Creek with William Martin, grandma-ing all these grandchildren from the marriage she had opposed, a melding of the Scotch Irish Dillows and German Casemans, and - as we may see in future stories - some English thrown in. Our mother remembers Mary Jane as "the best grandma you could want", so all those grandbabies and a settled life with William perhaps softened her up from the hardships of her own life.

Grace and Jacob raised all the children at the homestead, farming as well as Jacob going out to one room country school houses to educate the children of the hills and hollows. Our mother recalls that Grace "liked to keep the house nice" with wallpaper and rugs. The house was German style brick with five rooms downstairs and two upstairs, a potbellied stove in the living room for heat and a wood burning stove in the kitchen for cooking, and no indoor plumbing, so you know what that means. Elwood, their oldest child recalls the 1913 flood of the Ohio River, "waters were in this barn and Pa had placed planking to reach the barn. He removed some second floor boards from the barn loft, built a Jon boat in which we boated (across the flood waters) to grandparents' home".

Grace in the tobacco field at the homestead,


Grace and Jacob, a gentle couple


Grace in front of the homestead,


and in their later years.


Tragedy hit the family in 1925 when the second eldest, George Jacob, died at age 17 with complications of diabetes.

The six other children grew up and became teachers and farmers, providing Grace and Jacob with 14 grandchildren. Mary Jane lived nearby until her death in 1935. Jacob died in 1953, and Grace's letters from that time on speak of the sadness and loneliness she felt even though surrounded by family.

The homestead and farm was bought by the youngest child, Wilbur, a farmer, and one of his children tried to restore the house in the 1970's and 80's. I visited the homestead in 1984 and took this photo. Grace's gardens were gone, but the beauty of the setting is evident.


I also went out to our farmhouse on Grassy and found the one room school house where I started my education with my father as the teacher, eight grades in one room. It was those one room school houses in the hollows that kept most of the population of Kentucky from being illiterate.

Grace died in 1968 at age 85. The house was torn down to put through a freeway.

Channeling Our Mothers

Who among us has not heard her mother’s words coming from her own mouth? It can be startling, especially when the daughter has promised herself she would never act or speak like her mother. My own children frequently say to me, “OK, Ramona,” which I can sometimes blow off with a chuckle and grin. Sometimes.

When I pass away – and even before then – I hope my daughters will be able to channel me with:

• “I love you.”


• “You are SO smart!”


• “You are beautiful.”


• “I don’t agree with your choice (career, shampoo, spouse/boyfriend, moving, parenting - whatever) but it is your choice and I approve of YOU no matter what.”


• “I’m sorry. What can I do to make it up to you?”


• “Thank you.”


• “Be kind to your sister.”


• “Have fun!”


• “I am so proud of you.”

In one way or another, I learned these from my own mother.

Rest in peace, Mom.

A Letter from Staff Sgt. Allen Dillow, Vietnam, February 9, 1966

Going through my mother's letters this weekend, I came across a letter written to her from Staff Sargeant Allen Dillow, her nephew and our cousin. I always joked about having a crush on him when we were kids, so handsome was he in his uniform.

He writes to her from Vietnam in February 1966,

Dear Aunt Ramona and Girls,

I would like to express my sincere thanks for your thoughtfulness at Christmas time, a card, note, or just about anything is appreciated over here. We service men are not robots taught to kill. We still have a heart, and like to be thought of at such times. We are over here half way around the world, in a hostile land, not only a foreign land, away from our loved ones. Where every day things seem as such to you, they would be like a gift from heaven to us. Hot water, cold glass of milk, cold can of beer, seeing friendly eyes, someone that you could reach out and touch, or maybe even kiss, that are only gleams in our eyes that we have to wait a year for. But being what it is, and being the kind of men we are "supposed" to be, we must never complain, even though at nights you still hear sniffles from these men, not excluding me.

I don't hear much from home but I do hope things have worked out for the best. Daddy is the greatest as far as I am concerned. He has his faults, but we all do, none of us are perfect. If we were we would not be on this earth.

Do tell grandmother I said hello and hope this finds her in good health.

Tell Ray (our brother who was in the Ohio National Guard) that if it is at all possible not to get messed up with this over here. May he stay home as long as possible, and for God's sake don't volunteer, don't get star struck by some John Wayne type movie, it isn't fought that way.

Do take care, and thank you again for your kind and warm thoughts.

Allen

Ramona Dillow Nute, 1914-2011, Remembrance

The mortal life of our mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother came to an end yesterday afternoon but not without a gathering of the clan for company. She was almost 97 years old and, at her insistence, remained in her own home until her last days. She was still playing bridge with her buddies every week, watching CNN, and disdaining the Meals on Wheels brought to the house. She would have been driving the car in her garage were it not for the watchfulness of the family. Indeed, in her 90's she managed to sneak over to the DMV and convince the lady to re-issue her driver's license.

She was descended from Scotch-Irish Virginian frontiersmen and women, French Huguenots, that rash of Germans who settled Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Kentucky, Revolutionary War fighters, a teenage associate of George Washington, a Crockett from the Davy Crockett family, and civil war soldiers who fought at Bull Run and marched with Sherman through Georgia.

In her father's footsteps, she taught for 39 years beginning in one room school houses in Appalachian Kentucky. She traveled the US, Europe, and Middle East, starting with hitchhiking with her girl buddies in the 1930's.

She had four children, six grandchildren, and ten great-grandchildren.

In the last week of her life, she fell in her home and was not found for at least several hours. Although without serious injury, as often happens with the elderly, the trauma set off a chain of irreversible physical events. The family was called to gather as she was moved into Hospice of Charleston, and we kept vigil in her final hours which ran into three days. Two of her nurse grandgirls provided the care usually given by strangers. They turned her, bathed her, and painted her fingernails and toenails. A recording by her rock singer great granddaughter was played for her. We all talked to her even as she became less and less conscious. The doctor advised us to keep down the level of conversation as she could likely still hear us and didn't want to leave the party.

Finally, as it came time for me to return home, I told her I was leaving and it was time for her to leave. She died an hour and a half later.

Kicking Butt on El Cajon Mountain

It was a cool and foggy morning when Kathleen and I set off to bag the summit of El Cajon Mountain at El Capitan this weekend. East County being located in the Peninsular mountain foothills between Lakeside and Ramona, this is not usually a trek taken this late in the season when temperatures can be in the 90's. We had to cover 10 miles of rugged terrain before the heat set in. I was hoping to get a photo of El Cajon that would count toward my project of finding and hiking all the ranchos of San Diego.

We had a beautiful hike in, through corridors of California lilacs,





up and around and about the stone mountains,


past the remnants of the Cedar Fire that raged through here in 2003, burning 90% of the habitat.


"The Jeep" landmark, nice sculptural art for the area, looks to have been left there in the 1940's.


We chatted up the usual topics - the flora, what to do for a rattlesnake bite, where was the helicopter landing for all the injured hiker rescues you read about from this area - the last thing we wanted was again to be on News at 6 - until we reached the summit. We needed a little chatter. El Cajon Mountain with its steeps, boulders, chaparral, and distance is reviewed as the most kick-butt hike in the county.

Proof of arrival:


Unfortunately, I wasn't going to get a view of Rancho El Cajon through the fog.


On the way down, the fog cleared enough that I could get a shot of El Monte, but El Cajon city was so far off I wondered whether the El Cap had been part of the Rancho.


The afternoon brought the sun and blistering heat, but until the last couple miles I was still taking flower photos,







and finally, on the way out, a shot back at the behemoth that is El Capitan and the summit of El Cajon Mountain just up the ridge.



Rancho El Cajon was a huge ranch in the mid 1800's, including El Cajon city, Santee, Lakeside, Le Mesa and Flinn Springs. Did it include El Capitan? I think so. I could see Rancho del los Cochas just below in the valley, and I know a lot of Rancho El Cajon surrounded the little pig ranch. I think I feel a trip to the El Cajon Historical Society coming up.

Thank God for Rancho Santa Margarita - She Saved Us from Los Angeles

There's something about summer coming that lights my fire to check out the missions and ranchos of San Diego. When I got a last minute invitation to the Wounded Warrior Battalion's changing of command this week at Camp Pendleton, I grabbed my camera out the door because I knew I could get in the West Gate and do a bit of exploring by myself on the way out. Between the Battalion and the West Gate are the historic buildings of Rancho Santa Margarita y Las Flores.

The Rancho has a complicated history from the time the San Luis Rey Mission friars used the land for sheep and cattle early in the 1800's. After the Spanish mission days, the land became a huge rancho owned by Pio Pico, the first governor of California, and changed hands several times over the next 100 years. Read here for a nice history of the Rancho lands.

The land of what is now Camp Pendleton - 123,00 + acres between Oceanside and San Clemente, and eastward -was bought from the last rancho owner by the US Navy for an aircraft field and access to the ocean in 1942 and is now occupied by the Marines. This little strip of land has saved us from the sprawl of Los Angeles and Orange Counties. If there's going to be sprawl, we want to do it ourselves. The Marines, bless their hearts, have made a commitment to preserve the rancho buildings in the middle of the base.

The ranch house is closed except the second Wednesday of month and no way I'll make it up there on a Wednesday. I thought I could at least take a look around, but when I arrived the gate was closed. I parked the car anyway, and started to look around. The first thing I came across was a stone marker,


Beneath a nearby sycamore tree
Two of Andres Pico's officers
Leonardo Cota and Jose Alipas
Planned their successful strategy
Against the American forces
They battled at San Pasqual on
December 6, 1846

Remember I told the reader about General Kearny's retreat from San Pasqual to San Diego, passing through the Los Penasquitos rancho?

Here is an excellent account of the Mexican and American conflict in San Diego. We tend to not be aware of how much history there is in our little town.

As Patty knows I would, I looked around for that sycamore tree - gotta stand just where this happened and get the vibes. Uttered a little expletive known to be used by just every pilot whose plane is going down. Not that I don't know a sycamore tree when I see one, but they were all over the place.


I gave up on trying to find which one of the sycamores might be 200 years old, and walked around the little chapel, originally a winery built by the friars in 1810. Yep, a winery up here in the middle of the padres' cow fields.


I was embolden by my foray around the chapel, and thought what could it hurt just to foray up the hill a little more to the bunkhouse and ranch house. If they bring out the Marines, I could always remind them "I cook for you guys every month!"

The bunk house, also from 1810, has those signature Spanish columns and outside hallway.


The ranch house sits up on a little hill, with a view out to the ocean. It was built in the 1840's by the Picos and added to by later owners.




I was this far and still not a soul in sight, I had the place to myself, so I wandered further, enjoying the wonderful breeze from the ocean. The ranch house had the same outdoor hallway. I understand the 31 rooms have no interior halls, just exterior halls and a central courtyard.


I walked down the porch/hall and a long set of steps with an overhead ranch bell,


out onto the grounds where I found a cannon and another bell. Hm-m-m. Wondered whether these were maybe from the Battle of San Pasqual, although there were some skirmishes at Rancho Las Flores nearby.


I came across some beautiful doors and arches and architectural details.





It was time to high tail it out of there. I'll have to wait until retirement to have a Wednesday free to see the courtyard and interior of the ranch house. Being in this historic spot totally alone was a different kind of experience. Imagine if you had Machu Picchu, or the pyramids, or the fields of Culloden totally to yourself. Where would you want to be, totally alone with history?