There was the river.
I remember hearing about that.
How it cut through the silt left by ages of floodings. Then the
rolling hills, knobs, really. Then James Ripley's farm. Christian
used to climb the windmill that filled the well to watch the crossing
and the gap in the hills where George would first appear
when he came courting.
One Sunday, with all the open land around him he came in his father's
car and he ran straight into the windmill and knocked it seriously askew
while Christian's father stood upon the porch watching.
George had tried ever after to lay blame to the vehicles' brakes, but all
Christian's brothers and sisters laughed and teased and said it was love:
George Genestra was drunk with love.