“Can you imagine,” the old-timer drawled, leaning back against his porch swing, “this whole county, covered in thick pine forests?” He gestured with his hand, encompassing the bustling scene before us. “Montgomery County ain’t always been strip malls and subdivisions, you know.” He chuckled, a deep rumble in his chest. “Used to be, the only sounds you’d hear were the wind whistling through the pines and the hammering of lumberjacks.” He shook his head, a faraway look in his eyes. “Lumber boom built this county, that and a little black gold they found hidin’ under the ground.” He winked. “But that, well, that’s a story for another time.”
Центральный дом работников искусств
Step through the grand wooden doors of the Central House of the Workers of Art, and you’ll be transported to