We grew up at Sycamore Hill, the name of Grandmama’s farm.

It was indeed in the middle of nowhere and far from any major city. Summers were long, and we depended on each other for playmates and companionship.

My brother and I had our cousins who were not too far away.

We played outside with hardly any adult supervision and had free rein of the woods, the pond and the rest of the farm. We could go to the river, but would never swim unless an adult was there.

It wasn’t known as Drowning Creek for nothing.

But although on our own much of the time, we were well equipped to run free. We knew what was expected

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