The Older I Get, the More Valuable Easter Becomes
I grew up in Forney south of I-20 just off a Farm-to-Market road that splintered off 740 South. When we moved to Forney in 1983, land could still be purchased in Forney at tolerable per-acre prices, and back then, there was still plenty to go around.
Mom and Dad chose 12 ½ acres of nothingness—bordered by a lake to the east, a dam on the west and ample nothingness to the north and south. Thanks to Dad—who is a structural engineer by trade (and by nature, I think as well)—until age 22, I had always lived in a house he had designed and hand-built himself, save one little house in my home state of Georgia.
They used to love to stand outside on the back deck—Mom and Dad—watching prestormy weather. Listening and watching—to thunder rolling in the distance and lightning pulsating in the angry cloud cover. As they watched the weather, I watched themthrough the glass of the back atrium door off our breakfast nook, simultaneously creating a mental list titled, “100 Things That Make More Sense to Me Than Thunderstorm-Gazing.”
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