I grew up listening to my grandparents tell stories about the old days. As a child I was fascinated by the way of life described, and the characters that came to life in my imagination as I listened: The train-robbing, moonshiner, circuit-preaching great-grandpa who was a really great carpenter. The great-great grandma who had servants to comb her hair--until she married a Yankee and was disowned by her wealthy father. My grandpa's hometown, deep in the Ozark hills, covered forever by the lake in the 1930's. The hog that got loose, fell into the whiskey pit, and emerged drunk as a skunk. The dance halls, the wakes, the chivarees. The great grandma who plopped herself down in the outhouse one dark night only to find it already occupied. There were sad stories, too. And deep dark secrets revealed only on deathbeds, and some not at all. But so goes the way of life. We aren't meant to know it all, but it's good to appreciate what we know. This is how I came to live the life I now live. I love modern conveniences, but I'm drawn to the old-fashioned life my ancestors lived. Here on my homestead, running water, electricity, and central air go hand-in-hand with chicken scratch, hog slop, and compost piles. We eat what we grow, but we get drive-thru fast food when we want to. Sometimes my high heels get covered in chicken poop, but hey, I probably got them at a yard sale anyway. Somehow everything meets in the middle, and my goal is to keep this collision of worlds from looking frumpy, and to keep it wholesome. And to keep alive a way of life that seems long forgotten, but in reality still dances around in my imagination. If you stick around long enough, you might just catch a glimpse of it, too. Just watch out for the chicken poop!