History.

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A beautiful surprise crossed my email today, a post about our grandfather’s family homestead — a place, quite honestly, I hadn’t thought of in years. Yet today there it was, with old black-and-white images staring me in the face…offering tiny glimpses into the log cabin where Forrest C. Brooks (“Papa”) was raised in a family of seven sons. Kolb Farm was restored in the 1960s to preserve the history of The Battle of Kolb’s Farm, which took place during the American Civil War. It is on the National Register of Historic Places as part of Kennesaw Mountain National Battlefield Park.

“Kolb-Brooks Farm”

Peter Valentine Kolb built this log house in 1836 as four rooms with an open dogtrot (huge by 1836 pioneer standards!), enclosing the dogtrot into a central hall sometime before the Civil War. William Franklin Brooks (1864-1952) and Emma Latimer Brooks (1865-1949) purchased it from the Kolb family and had seven boys (William, Jr., George, Clyde, Glen, Grover, Guy, and Forrest) that lived and grew up on this farm. 

Source: Old Marietta

 

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Hey, Chick!

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It’s chick season! And we have six new additions: 2 Barred Rock babies, 2 Black Australorps as well as 2 sweet little Buff Orpingtons we’re raising for a friend down the road. Come July our “nest” should be filled with plenty of fresh eggs so give a holler if you’ll be wanting some.

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Hear this one professional woman’s take on trying to be everything for everyone. And maybe…instead of working so hard to lean in and win approvals, we should learn to kick back and chill out just a little bit more.

“Perhaps the modern equivalent of Woolf’s ‘room of her own’ is the right to stop ‘leaning in’ all the time. There is, after all, much to be said for leaning out — for long lunches, afternoon naps, good books and some nice, slow hours in the La-Z-Boy […or hammock].”

Read this “manifestus for the rest of us” in She The People (Washington Post).

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one man’s trash

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After a big rain we get excited to re-explore the property, especially if the creek floods. Yes, lots of trash surfaces and we haul out our big bags to do clean-up each time. But we also make some pretty good finds, as stuff buried for years sometimes get unearthed with the flow of rushing water. Of late? Bottles. Like a 1952 Purex bleach bottle made of amber glass and a flask-style liquor bottle from ’71, the year our house was built. (We think that’s a good sign! 😉 ) And then there’s the Civil War-era bottle that once housed Dr. J. Hostetter’s Stomach Bitters, a medicinal tonic sold to soldiers that was made with a variety of herbs and copious amounts of alcohol. We snatched that up at a flea market for $5 and added it to the collection.

What will the spring rains bring? We’ll see!

 

A description of Dr. Hostetter’s Bitters, United States Almanac 1867…

Hostetter’s Bitters 

Dyspepsia’s pangs, that rack and grind
The body, and depress the mind;
Slow constitutional decay,
That brings death nearer, day by day;
Nervous prostration, mental gloom,
Agues, that, as they go and come,
Make life a constant martyrdom;
Colics and dysenteric pains,
‘Neath which the strong man’s vigor wanes;
Bilious complaints, — those tedious ills,
Ne’er conquered yet by drastic pills;
Dread Diarrhea, that cannot be
Cured by destructive Mercury;
Heralds of madness or the tomb;
For these, though Mineral nostrums fail,
Means of relief at last we hail,
HOSTETTER’S BITTERS medicine sure,
Not to prevent, alone, but cure.

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A beautiful winter day with Taylor and Rio!

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