Early in the morning we drove the back roads to the town on the map named Peach Bottom. We found one or two houses and a boat marina on the east bank, right across the river from the Peach Bottom nuclear power plant, which loomed on the opposite bank like a behemoth, its high-powered electrical transmission wires emanating from it, octopus like, in every direction. This didn’t look like a place for a slate quarry, in my opinion, but I did notice that the name of the road going uphill past the marina was Slate Hill Road. "Let’s follow this road," I said to the kids, excited, like a bloodhound on a trail.

At the top of the hill, we passed an old farm with a new roof. We then came upon a small, old house, also with a slate roof and with an old man. I pulled over and shut off the car motor. The old fellow turned off his row-tiller and we met in his side yard.