Robinsonville
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COLUMN: Boy on a hot tin roof
Mama had a mysterious situation. Her dried apples kept disappearing. Each day their number seemed to be less than it had been the day before. For some strange reason, she seemed to think I knew something about it. Mama must have thought I was extremely smart, because she came to me quite often for answers about things she didn’t understand. Mama called the place where we dried our apples “The Pump House.” Dad called it “The Well House.” Well, I figure both were correct, because our well was located in there as well as an electric pump for the well. Our...
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