When you drive through the Maine countryside you occasionally see abandoned farmhouses gradually losing the battle against time, gravity, neglect and nature.  I always feel a bone-deep sadness when I see them.  I wonder about the families who lived and died in these old homes—who used to take pride in them.  I imagine children running in the dooryard, a dog barking, chickens scratching in the dirt, laundry flapping in the Maine breeze.   Now, a tattered curtain hangs at a broken window and the wind almost echoes with faint voices.  What circumstances left each building empty of current life, yet resonant with the vibrations of centuries of inhabitation?  These buildings speak to me.