When I was about five, my father moved us to a farm up on Milltown Hill.  At Milltown, or Bevan as it was called at one time, the road splits. Traveling off to the right follows Dana’s Run. The other way is in behind the few houses there and up a steep hill. This is Milltown Hill.  And what a hill! Today the road has been somewhat widened and access is easier, but it still takes a four-wheel drive vehicle to navigate it in inclement weather.  In the 1950’s the four-wheel drive vehicle as we know it today did not exist. Instead, my father owned a forties’ model car. I can still remember those trips up and down that hill. The farm consisted of two houses and a large barn that sat out a long lane imperiled with many ruts. Ruts (for all those who live in the city) are places where the wheels would sink deeply from repeated use when it was muddy. One house was a nice large house so my five-year-old wisdom decided. The other was a tiny three room house, no running water, no indoor plumbing, no television, just three small rooms. The barn was beautiful and big as barns go. Daddy decided to tear down the nice big house while we lived in the small one. He wanted to build in Newport proper. I remember wandering through the house as it was stripped to the bare bones wondering about the many papers and stray books. We had two “neighbors” up on top of Milltown Hill, the Leisters and the Davises. The Leister’s place was the farm right before turning off into our lane. Their house set close to the road down just slightly over the bank. The house was a story and a half, with a narrow staircase to the bedrooms upstairs. Ruth Ann was their youngest daughter – the only one left at home at the time. Ruth Ann was my age and I enjoyed many hours with her exploring their farm. I can still see that house today with the butter churn in the kitchen when Mrs. Leister made butter.  Mr. and Mrs. Davis lived beyond us on the next hill. (Really it was the same hill but between our place and theirs were meadows and knolls.) When daddy or mommy wanted to speak to John or Bertha Davis they would go out in the field at one specific spot and “holler.” –Not even the telephone had reached Milltown Hill by 1950. To go to visit meant a trip out our lane, up around the bend (I really don’t know exactly how far it was.) and out another long lane. Their farm was a magical place to me. At one time, I believe there must have been a small family community located there. John and Bertha lived in a small house, off the side of the narrow road. It was what I would picture as today as a modest English cottage. I remember the long kitchen and the front room with the low ceiling and fire place. On the mantle set an anniversary clock that their children had given them. On one visit it was butchering time and John had hung the carcass from the tree. Bertha was in the kitchen making blood pudding.  On another visit Bertha wanted to take mommy and me into the root cellar to give us a jar of some homemade goodie. She came across a copper head snake, took a hoe and chopped its head off! John Davis had several buildings close to his house following out the lane on the side of the hill.  In one was an old horse-drawn buggy. Further on, out that same lane there were the remnants of a blacksmith shop and other buildings. I remember wondering about the people who had come before and were no longer. Well, daddy built his house on the lot that was next door to the Hartshorn’s home. Uncle Robert bought the farm on Milltown Hill. Last I heard the small three-room house and the barn are still standing.  After we moved in 1960, the house that daddy built was eventually torn down and another newer, bigger house was built in its place. Susy Wetz