Explore "Farmington" by Clarence Darrow on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Like everything else in my early life, my Aunt Mary is a memory that is shrouded in mist. I have no idea when I first heard of her or first saw her, but both events were while I was very young. Neither can I now separate my earlier impressions of Aunt Mary from those that must have been formed when I had grown into my boyhood. It was some time after she was fixed in my mind before I knew that there was an Uncle Ezra, and that he was Aunt Mary's husband. They had never had any children, and had always lived alone. Whenever either one was spoken of, or any event or affair connected with their lives was referred to, it was always Aunt Mary instead of Uncle Ezra.
When I first remember them, they were old, or at least they seemed old to me. They had a little farm not far from our home; and I sometimes used to go down the dusty road to their house for eggs, butter, and buttermilk. Aunt Mary was famed throughout the region for the fine butter she made; and, either from taste or imagination, I was so fond of it that I would eat no other kind.