[He considers this explanation for a long moment, laying out in his mind the river down which all time flows, wondering just how many branches there are. He wonders if he could have gone down a different branch, if Caddy could have done so it won't do any good don't you know it won't let me go, or if it ought to have been their grandfather slipping down another branch for anything to turn out differently than it had.

The question is one with which he is familiar, yet he never quite knows how to answer. He sticks with what is experienced at the surface, because the words for what is undulating beneath are harder to grasp.]

This time of year it's all magnolia trees and dogwood and honeysuckle, and wisteria crowding around the porch. Jefferson is in the north country - it's a few hours' ride to the next town over, and a full day out to Oxford. The whole area was wild but a century ago, before my great-grandfather's father bought the land off old Ikkemotubbe.