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“Where did all the chickens go?”
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"It was a cold wintry day when I brought my children to live in rural West Virginia. The farmhouse was one hundred years old, there was already snow on the ground, and the heat was sparse-—as was the insulation. The floors weren’t even, either. My then-twelve-year-old son walked in the door and said, “You’ve brought us to this slanted little house to die." Keep reading our story....
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Casper’s counterpart, a yellow dog for sure, watches over the yard. My uncle’s friends, Molly and Frank have the same front porch and front door, only weathered an additional 50 years. Molly’s wears chore boots and an apron. She sits in one of the rockers with its back hooked up under one of the window sills, chewing tobacco and spitting over the porch into the yard. She has a rifle across her lap. When we went to visit, my uncle and I got out of the car when we were about 1/4 mile from the house. We walked around the car twice. Then we got in and drove the rest of the way.
Casper’s dopplegange’s not worried about Chickens in the Road, just revenuers!
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