He read a story of another time, of a land before dam that defined it now: boom of the build and abandonment after—emigration of the people when means for way of life no longer remained; communities around church, only two, either one or the other—neither place nor welcome for his Catholic blood, though it was there to where they moved.
A simpler time—which meant survival and joy in the toil for one had not the time for idle self-sabotage and pity—penny candy, nickel movies, school set to seasons of the fields—pausing for work, restoring when done—wood stoves heating rooms of few children and many grades; country markets on Sundays, after church, trading and selling surplus of the farm for the things one could neither grow nor make.
“Did you go back and see any of it?” he asked. “The Inn would be a goldmine these days—if anyone would’ve guessed what others would pay for what children and locals did for free having nothing else to do…”
Those were her roots—well of beginning from pure, cold waters from out the deep from dam which bares town’s name and men, world over, travel from far and wide to reach and pursue in the waters catch of brown and rainbow dreams.
“Did you see any of it when you went?” he asked. “Is any of it still there?”—relics of a past, of origin’s story.