By Barbara Falconer Newhall
The maple, ash and elm trees were turning gloriously gold and carnelian in Red Wing, Minnesota, earlier this month. Front porches up and down neighborhood streets sported witches, spiders, ghosts, and fat, round jack o’ lantern faces trying hard to be scary.
As for me, I was hunting phantoms of my own. I was looking for my ancestral ghosts, one George J. Richards and his mysteriously named Dutch [Read more…]