I was born in April 15, in the year of our Lord 1844, to James Edward and Amelia Evanston. Edward was a farmer, and occasional woodworker, while Amelia was a good and dutiful wife. They made for a very handsome couple, and I was their eldest. A few years after my birth, they were blessed with their second child, Christopher. We lived in our small homestead for many years, and Christopher and I, were raised there by our parents, as best as they could. Those were the happiest years of my life, and I would not trade their memories for anything.
Unfortunately, such happy memories were cut short when raiding Indians attacked our homestead, took our parents' supplies, and killed my parents before my very eyes. Father did try to chase off the Indians, and I daresay, did fight valiantly, and with all the courage he could muster. I could still remember him grabbing his hammer and bludgeoning one of the invading Indians on the head with it. He took that one down, but there were four of them, and the other three simply shot poor Pa to pieces before us. Ma screamed and could do nothing as she joined Pa in the Great Beyond.
