Some of Sawyer’s earliest memories were trouncing through the woods with Abel or aging Bowen. In the winter, the snow seemed to be piled up to Sawyer’s waist and after returning from deer hunting one December afternoon he remarked to his mother, Rosa Lynne, “It was like wading through a pool of mashed potatoes!” In the summer he could hardly see over some of the tall grasses. When a day of local hunting or a trip to the Allegheny Mountains was planned, Sawyer’s excitedness kept him awake at night. Continue reading
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