Knob Creek Farm

Although President, I am a farm boy at heart.

My cozy memories from time to time take me to back to Knob Creek in Kentucky. Even though I was just a young “whipper snapper”, no higher than corn on the fourth of July, I carried big jugs of water uphill to our stone house. Then gathered wood for Mama. In the evening, by the golden glow of those embers, I watched Mama’s face embellish an empyreal blush as she read the Bible. But sometimes, a sadness washed over her when she remembered my baby brother, who’d gone  to Heaven. I reckon she missed him, even though she was happy he was with God.

Sarah, my sister, and I planted everything from pumpkin seeds to corn seeds. We couldn’t wait to take that corn down to Hodgen’s Mill to be ground up into corn meal so Mama could make us her special corn fritters. On the way back, we’d meet up with Daddy by the stream fishing.  “Got some big ones to fry up to go with them fritters,”  he’d say.

Now, I digressed –back to writing that Gettysburg Address.