My wife and I live just a couple of blocks from the Mount Vernon mansion and property. Of course, in George's day, his property extended far, far beyond what it is now. Our house is on Cherrytree Drive. I mean, is that perfect, or what? What this means is that our property was once a part of George's farm. Without question, he grew stuff on it. Today, of course, there is no vestige of that left. (I use the word "vestige" because it is an extremely erudite word, just to show that (1) I was an English major in college, and (2) I am familiar with obscure, but colorful words like "erudite".) (And you would think that, as an English major, I would know whether the closing quotation mark thingy (") is supposed to go before or after the period; but I don't, and I'll bet you don't either. But here's the spooky part. When we walk around on our property, especially in the back yard, which is replete (erudite word again) with tall sycamore trees, just like you see when you tour Mount Vernon. We fancy that George once rode his horse right through there, and can almost hear the clippity-clop of the hooves, hear George saying, "Easy big feller", and even see dried, petrified horse droppings there. Now, be honest, dear readers - do you get a thrill from horse droppings like we do? Aha ... we know you don't.