I am thoroughly enjoying the discussion of homes and activities in the early days! I remember sleeping on a mattress stuffed with cornshucks...in the winter we took a heated brick to bed with us for warmth. I just had to share this poem: DRIED APPLE PIE (author unknown) I loathe, abhor, detest, despise, Abominate Dried Apple Pies. I like good bread, I like good meat, Or anything thats fit to eat; But of all poor grub beneat the skies, the poorest is Dried Apple Pies. Give me the toothache, or sore eyes, But don't give me Dried Apple Pies! The farmer takes his gnarlist fruit, Tis wormy, bitter, and hard to boot; He leaves the hulls to make us cough, And don't take half the peeling off. Then on a dirty cord 'tis strung And in a great window hung, And there it serves as roost for flies, Until it's made up into pies. Tread on my corns, or tell me lies, But don't pass me Dried Apple Pies! Enjoy the memories it recalls! Bonnie in NC