I've been to the farm. Drove right past it, thinking that can't be it. Oh please, don't let that be it. But after consulting an 1872 map, I faced the fact that the big beautiful house I hoped was ours belonged to W. S. Jerome.
We had the hovel, one door south.
Across Livonia Center Road, there lived J. S. Beecher and A. R. Pemberton.
By chance, four generations and 130 years later, a Beecher was about in his yard, and noticed when I parked and got out to snoop around. He owns the place now. Rents it. The current renters were at work. I asked Charlie Beecher if he'd consider letting me have a look inside. He obliged. I wish he hadn't. A look inside totally ruined my fantasy of finding a historically intact interior. Henry's hovel has been "updated" in the worst possible way, and they stopped somewhere in the sixties. There was no chance of picking up ancestral vibes. I hate ugly rooms. I thanked him and got away as fast as I could.
That was faster than Henry got away. Faster than any of the sons and daughters of Henry got away. Faster by far than Jerusha or Catharine got away.