When I was little, my mother would frequently talk about the summers that she spent at her grandmother's and aunt's homes in North Carolina. Her aunt, my Great-Aunt Martha, had a farm in Tobaccoville, and we'd visited it plenty, but I'd never been to my great-grandmother's house. It seemed so unfair that I'd never seen this house that was so central to my family's past, so I demanded to go. I was told that it had been bulldozed long before I was born, replaced by a parking lot.
I would never get to see the house where my grandmother and her sisters were born, where they spent the hard years of the Depression. The house where Martha threw a party and invited my grandfather, the night he first saw my grandmother (and declared he was going to marry her). It was gone, and there was nothing I could do about it. It broke my heart.
So imagine my sheer delight when I came across this treasure while digging through a drawer.