One of the saddest days of my life was the day that I heard that Powell bean burned down. I was fifteen with a brand new drivers licence and dad allowed that it was OK for me to take the grain to town to get rolled. With a couple of silver dollars in my pocket I thought that I was a real hot shot to rub elbows with the other farmers at the mill. The weights on the the edge of the bag to hold it in place needs no explanation.
1 comment:
I remember coming home for a visit, and the smell of the burned beans permeated the whole Powell valley, even down into Penrose. What a memory. And weren't you grown up?
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