There are those stories that make you feel like life does have magic. It simply must, otherwise the story would never exist. I love those stories. They bring inspiration to our existence.
I can’t remember when Jeannette Harris first shared her story with me. I think it was one Christmas day after all the presents had been opened, after my fifth slice of pumpkin bread, after the Wassail, and the craziness of friends stopping by. I imagine it was in the dim light of her living room with the Christmas tree aglow and the stained glass window in the hall lit up. Ah holiday lighting: it’s cozy and creates the perfect setting for a story. She began:
“My mother, Ruth Carey, had moved from the Poconos to Key West. Her family was Pennsylvania Dutch and she was the pioneer of our southern Florida family. My brother, George, was five at the time when I was born. My Gramma, Emma Hohenshilt, ran a birth announcement about me in the Stroudsburgs newspaper up in the Poconos. She then watched for the printed version and clipped two copies to send to my mom as a keepsake.”