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Wild Apples by Henry David Thoreau5/9/2023 My neighbor is the one who tells me about Joe Little – he’s shared stories about him for over ten years, so many iterations that I can no longer separate what is myth from what is remembered, what is truth from what is wishfully imposed on the past. Rather, our street and our collection of houses, called Little Mountain Acres, are both named for a man named Joe Little, who was raised on the land and lived on the land until he died. Little Memory Lane, though, isn’t meant to make memory diminutive. Our gas station is the Mule Express, complete with a painted, polished wooden sign of a braying mule, where a group of gray-haired men talk over Styrofoam cups of coffee each morning. Our houses, most overlooking the lake, nestle in the woods. Our town, located in the Ozark Mountains of Missouri, probably invites sentimentalism as well. The sign, with its precious name, almost begs to be taken: Little Memory Lane. Tourists, we think, are responsible for stealing our street sign once a summer, sometimes more often.
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