Once upon a time, when my family was hoping to move to the country, we drove up a rutted dirt road ... and found a story.
The house was damaged beyond hope, although it took a while for a contractor to convince us that rotted sills did not a "fixer-upper" make. Still, something about the place remains with me yet today. In fact, this house is probably "the house that built me" as a writer. The rooms were knee-deep in the lives of people who'd lived here. Literally, knee deep. Photographs like the one with the family. School assignments. Quilts. Clothing. No furniture ... only the things that you and I would think of as the personal things that we wouldn't want to part with.
What's the story here? Let's talk story.