The giant cottonwoods stand guard over the site of the little brown house where I spent the first nine years of my boyhood.
The rule is, everyone who visits Penrose must take a photo of the little white house where I spent five years of my boyhood, and others spent much longer. My room was on the right near corner, with two windows.
The Penrose Shoshone River Bridge. Can you imagine how the torrent of water narrows to pass under this undistinguished bridge? Used to be, you felt you were home when you saw the old railroad bridges across the river as the privileged entrance into Penrose. Now, no feeling at all.