I got back from Nashville around 7:30 this evening. All five of us surviving first cousins had come for the funeral; I guess when you get down to so few, the more precious they become. And we were only seven to start with. I didn't go to the house after the interment; it would have been more than eighty miles out of my way, and I wanted to stop at my parents' graves in Goodlettsville, which I did. I certainly recognized the main street through town, but among other things, the feed store had gone, and Bill Crook's Food Town (what a name) has become a modern grocery. To say nothing of all the build-up on the bypasses leading out to the Interstate.

Then I drove down the road to where the old farm had been; where I had such wonderful times as a child. Uncle Bennett's tobacco barn is still there, but nothing else remains of any of the buildings including the farmhouse itself. It is just a kind of neighborhood, now. Sigh. But I saw the bridge over the creek where I almost stepped on a water moccasin that time, and remembered how my mother would organize picnics, something Aunt Mary probably didn't really have time for, being a farm wife, but she went uncomplainingly. I also went by the subdivision that was actually named for my father's family out of part of the farm when it was sold; the streets are named for my relatives! None for me, though. So much for fame! :-)