Charles E. Burchfield (1893-1967)

112. waking memory of it falls far short of the thrill I felt in my dream. All the houses were old, weather-beaten, clapboards falling away, with some windows broken; old shaggy half-dead locust trees abounded, with their trunks green with moss. Moss, too, grew on some of the window sills. It seemed as if the people who lived here, had long ago lost all contact with the outside world, and with their dwellings were slowly mouldering into decay.

     B said she would like some gum, so I parked in the square, and started walking back to a drugstore we had passed. At this moment a great clatter arose up the street; a man on motorcycle, and a car were speeding toward me - The car was trying to pass the motorcycle on the right side, and kept forcing it more and more to the left, until the motorcyclist was forced to run into a ditch. The car sped on. The motorcyclist, pulled his machine out, and went down an alley, saying to half to himself and half to me " I must get the sheriff" - and gave me a look which I interpreted to mean that he wanted me as a witness.

     I felt it was my duty, however distasteful, to be a witness to the outrage, so I too went in search of the sheriff. A passerby directed me a few doors down the street. No. 90 I was told was his home. I came to a large rambling old house, that had three front doors - the ones on the outside both being numbered 90 - the one in between with no number. I went to the one on the right, and without knocking I opened the door and stepped inside.

     (CD) room I entered seemed as if it had been inhabited for years - the floor was bare, with dust and debris littering it,