My name is Margaret Ingrid Forrester and I am 92 years old. I usually spend my time sitting on the porch watching the endless fields stretch out before me, the birds flying overhead, the wind blowing, rustling the leaves of the old oak tree. That tree has been here longer than I have. Oh, don't get me wrong, I didn't always sit here enjoying the rolling hills and the distant mountains of West Virginia. Believe it or not, I used to be a traveling dancer with the Vaudeville Girls. But, of course, this was years ago. Before I met Harry.
             It was 1926, I was 17, and being a girl who's life's ambition was centered around the graceful stars of Hollywood, it was no wonder that when I heard that the Vaudeville Girls were coming into town, I couldn't refrain from begging my father for permission to go see the show. Father worked in the bank and being the stubborn man he was, I knew it would take a lot of coaxing before he would even consider the idea. He didn't approve of such "nonsense"
             (nonsense was the word he used when he referred to any element of entertainment). Mother said that a girl my age could be wrongly influenced and it wasn't lady-like to be a dancer. But I knew I had to go, if only for 10 minutes, I had to see their beautiful costumes and how high they kicked. My friend Eliza May said that they could kick so high that the top of their feet would touch their heads! That night, I decided I wouldn't need my parents' approval to see the show. I would sneak into the theatre with Eliza, and my parents' needn't find out.
             I remember walking through town that following Monday and hearing an excited buzzing along it's many roads. It was wonderful, the town had never been so alive! Whether it was the old ladies gossiping about the short outfits or the young men practicing what to say if they were to bump into one of them, everyone was talking about the Vaudeville Gir...