This is the story of a vanished small-town America. Time: from the era of the horse-drawn Democrat wagon to the present. Place: one the Pamet River, Truro, Massachusetts, a small sea-coast town near the tip of Cape Cod. Kane Weaves in brilliant descriptions of the changing seasons (prompting one reader to write that he could smell the salt air in last month's column) regaling his readers with spectacular reports of shipwrecks of the coast of Truro and the nefarious deeds of the mooncussers, over fifty years ago. He evokes memories of the two-room Wilder School, scene of many boyhood pranks; barefoot trips to the corner drug store; and his first attendance at the ritual backyard hog butchering, in the fall.