Here is a reminiscence whose theme is my family. I try to discern something of the personalities of my ancestors, along with the bare facts that I could uncover. It is a portrait of a river, a great river of memory, and its tributaries, which lie in the imagination. What is a family, anyway? It's a giant dream, a mental conception that allows a person to be strengthened against the adverse tides of the present, or to deepen present contentment and happiness. In either case, I hope my descendants will find this dream, this slice of their own history, useful and entertaining. And I hope my great-grandfather will forgive me for turning his walking stick into a metaphor. It's still a walking stick, believe me. I even use it, sometimes, when I'm out in the woods.