The farmhouse looked the way it must have when Grandma worked here, in the 1920s and ’30s. Yes, everything looked more or less the same as it did then. Yet everything was different. It was August 1988, I was an ’80s person, contemporaneous with Duran Duran and the Cure, not that fiddle and accordion music Grandpa listened to in the days when he trudged up the hill in the dusk with a friend to court Grandma and her sisters. I didn’t belong here, with all of my heart I felt that. It didn’t help that I knew the forest was actually an ’80s forest and the mountains actually ’80s mountains.
