This former chicken coop had become a shed where our sheep could get out of the weather--though never overestimate the intelligence of sheep. The windmill was just across a narrow lane on the west side of my grandmother's formal garden. I climbed that windmill countless times, determined to crawl up onto the narrow ledge just below the top. Never made it. The brake that stopped the vanes from rotating had broken and they spun constantly, shifting with the wind. Once I'd get above the level of the Osage Orange trees that surrounded it, I always chickened out. And that may be why I survived to write the novels on this website. Even back then, my imagination was up to convincing me of what would happen if the wind shifted once I was on that little (very little) ledge.











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