I'm not sure what my attraction to this place is, but every single time I pass the homestead on my way to and from the post office (aka the Mast General Store) I look and nearly stop. It could be an overwhelming urge to see if my ample arse might fit within the tire swing and give it a go...or it may be the well-crafted ladder to nowhere which piques my interest. More likely it's the memory of the red bud tree in a blush of bloom which ignites a passionate fury within my frozen Appalachian soul. I've no remembering clue if the tree with the tire swing is a red bud or if it's one near the barn in the bottom photo. Regardless, like the swing clings to the tree, my heart is Saran wrapped around the hope of the pink-y promise of emerging buds.