A road trip recently swung me down the back roads of Georgia and took me through a little town called Homer. I wouldn’t have thought much about it until I saw that wonderful old brick courthouse shaded by trees under which, probably, once rested a Confederate soldier or two.It’s funny how forgotten memories are, how they’ll come rushing out in such a jumble that it feels like it happened just yesterday. My heart was thunderstruck with such vivid memory of a pleasant summer’s evening that I turned the car around, went back to the courthouse and sat on the sleepy street beside it and just remembered.It is a two-story red building with four white columns undergirded by brick.