Imagination Station
This little shack occupied a corner of my childhood memory that only Dorothy's tornado-tossed Kansas farmhouse could supplant.
The one-room house seemed to have dropped out of the sky, resting just yards away from my grandparents' house on their farm in Kinder, Louisiana.
Behind its usually locked door was the fodder for a grandchild's rich imagination. Books, magazines, a railroad lantern, a typewriter, antique oddities of another age; all etching themselves on the mind of a young boy and still evident when I lightly scratch the surface of my recollections of those days.
Imagination Station
This little shack occupied a corner of my childhood memory that only Dorothy's tornado-tossed Kansas farmhouse could supplant.
The one-room house seemed to have dropped out of the sky, resting just yards away from my grandparents' house on their farm in Kinder, Louisiana.
Behind its usually locked door was the fodder for a grandchild's rich imagination. Books, magazines, a railroad lantern, a typewriter, antique oddities of another age; all etching themselves on the mind of a young boy and still evident when I lightly scratch the surface of my recollections of those days.