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I woke up to the smell of bacon and the sounds of the men preparing for a day of long hard work. I heard the women singing hymns as they rattled the pans on the stove. I heard the creak of the old oven door, the sound of homemade biscuits. I peered out the window and watched the soft mist rise as the first rays of sun glinted over the mountain. I knew I was home.
One of my favorite childhood memories of my great grandmother’s house. I can smell the bacon and almost taste the honey and biscuits.