Thoughts on the Historical Society
It was March, not quite winter, but not yet spring. The winter winds had been brutal as they swept in across the open farm fields, but the sturdy log cabin had kept out all but the worst of it. In spite of the dawning of the new season, all that lived in the home were not filled with the new hope associated with the first rays of warm sun because they had been standing watch as the family patriarch struggled with his last breaths as “lung fever” stole his life away from him. He was only 56 years old.
