We then headed southwest of town to find the Ditmore homeplace. This was the farm where John Henry and Malora Jane Ditmore raised their family. We drove to an area with livestock pens and from this spot you could see the "mountain" that the Ditmore children used to play on. We pulled in and got out just to feel that plot of ground under our feet. A white farm truck pulled up - either 1) thinking we were going to rustle some horses or 2) thinking we were having car trouble. In this truck was Bob Reynolds - farmer. Bob lived in the house that he was born in - the first farm south of the Ditmore's place. We inquired if he knew any of our kinfolk, which of course, he did. He invited us up to his arena to watch team roping and to meet a man named Don Branson, who had lived in the Ditmore farm house after it was sold. We followed like obliging little children, anxious for any tidbit of information that Mr. Branson could glean on his childhood. Both of these men treated us like they had known us all their lives.
Just north of Bob's place is the exact spot of the homeplace - of course, a photo opportunity made the car stop so we could all get out. What a beautiful vista looking from the road to the west. I can certainly see why our ancestors chose that particular spot.
Driving back to the city, I started thinking about Bob and Don and how they didn't know us from Adam, but did everything in their power to help us, but more importantly to make us feel welcome. I also realized that these are the same types of people that we came from. Living in that area must have been so grand. Everyone knew everyone, and better yet, everyone liked everyone.
