His office light burning night after night was like a beacon on Main Street. I doubt if Abraham Lincoln ever burned more midnight oil than Ernest Faulkner did...for he was lonely and the light of his life had long passed; his office became his solace, where he could hang his head in deep thoughts, turning sometime into tears and one would drop off the law brief on which he was working, alerting him that he had drifted off into bygone days. Oh, how he must have missed his dear companion reaching into the air hoping her hand would touch his once again. However, he knows that those happy days are gone forever, and now he cherishes the memory of her. He walks over to the window looking toward the Courthouse, where he stands watching as the lights in yonder stores, etc. dim and the little town is put to sleep. He also must call it a night and make his way to the house on the hill, where his sister keeps his home and he knows supper will be waiting. How lonely he must be.
Their home on the hill overlooking Oakhurst (in the future that would lead to La Citadelle), was the perfect place for the two of them to sit and look out at the stars at night; a tranquil setting hidden away from the hustle and bustle below them, where he could rid himself of the turmoil of a law practice and find comfort sitting in the swing with her, as they listened to the crickets symphony.
My cousin and I once a week would deliver milk and butter to their home on the hill. Her brother had instilled in us that the house was haunted but we hadn't seen a spook and besides we got a nickel a piece for making the delivery service of home churned butter and fresh milk. I don't recall ever seeing his wife, but we did see his sister who would take our delivery and give us money to take back, plus a nickel extra for each of us. This was long before the motel was built or any houses as I recall, other than the ones down below them on Oakhurst, i.e., Mrs. Metcalf, my Uncle Curt Stacy, The Moodys, The Gilberts, the Haleys, the Colletts, and Brown and Nancy Baker at the very end where we would turn up to Uncle Garrett's little farm on the mountain facing the one on which the Faulkners lived. We never let darkness set in on us before we made it off the hill though. I grew up with memories of this tranquil place etched in my mind, and years later Mr. Faukner and I would meet again when I worked with him on several projects pertaining to his law practice. He smiled as I recalled for him my memory of his home atop the mountain. A small world, you might say, a small world indeed.