My dear readers,
If you are indeed reading this, you have come upon this text for one of three reasons. 1. You are one of the few remaining citizens of Eden Creek that still frequent the library. 2. You have stumbled across this book in a dusty corner of your great-great aunt's house. 3. You are my father. I am writing this book in the small back room of the Eden Creek Public Library. This room is also known as the Eden Creek Historical Society. I am the sole member even though I encourage others to enter with a crooked "Welcome" sign on the door.
I moved to this town a handful of years ago from a bigger city in hopes to settle down. I will not bore you with that story. I live at the end of Grace St. just south of the cemetery on my lowly acre where I dig deeper and deeper into the tragic roots of this town.
I am one of two library employees. I founded the historical society. And I am a returning member to the supper club. The Friday fish fry is quite excellent. On some Sundays I'll go down to the Lutheran church but for the most part my mornings are spent looking out my front window with a cup of coffee. Many people are trying to leave this town. I seem to be one of the few who find some sort of magnetic pull to these coordinates and fields and I find great joy in living here.
So reader, if you too find this magnetic field pulling you, read on. And for you others, maybe you should read something else. I suggest Steinbeck, or Chekhov, or maybe, some Hemingway.
take a listen to Sounds of Eden on Spotify.