That Dusty Road, 1721-1736
HE LAID the quill pen on the table beside the large stack of manuscripts and quietly sighed, "It's finished."
From his chair he could see that the sun had almost set, but the wind continued to blow snow into small drifts against one side of the windowpane. Rising slowly, he stood beside the crude desk, the only piece of furniture, except a bed, in the small cabin that had been his home these past several months. A cold chill shook his body. He walked to the corner of the room, selected several hickory logs from the pile, and placed them on the fire. Within a few moments the fire was burning briskly. The rising flames quickly warmed the cabin and drove the chill from his body.
Through the window, the soft blue of the coming evening covered the landscape before him, yet the faint glow of the sun behind the clouds gave the valley a warm glow. For hundreds of years, perhaps millennia, the ancestors of the people who lived in the twenty bark and log huts surrounding the chapel behind his cabin had roamed this land where he now lived. These Native Americans called it the "Black Forest." The Muskingum River (now the Tuscarawas) slowly winds through the floor of the valley.1