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This tiny cottage sits at the end of almost two miles of dirt road, next to the giant boulder where many of my ancestors’ ashes (and cats) are buried. The owners, the Nelsons, were legends of my childhood. I sipped my first root beer here. He smoked a pipe and was once editor of the Saturday Evening Post. She wore a blue handknitted cardigan every day, pumped water by hand from a well up the road, and drove an enormous station wagon out of which she could barely see. Rumor is Norman Rockwell was once a guest. Boy, if those walls could speak.

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