Sometime I've got to tell you about Firdale. It hasn't existed for decades, but it was a sweet little place up a long road, along a little stream that red salmon struggled to ford in the late fall. Milk sometimes gut put out on the post if Granny and Grandpa had cows that year. The garden was fenced to about 10 feet in an effort to keep the deer our so a huge long pantry could be filled every year. There was an outlet, and the tubs were tin. Chickens were whirled and broomed not long after the fresh rolled noodles were hung on the porch clothesline to dry.