On MLK weekend, my family and friends convene every year at Spring Mill State Park in southern Indiana. In the park is a historic grist mill, circa 1830s. Two houses stand near the mill, original to the village. Two of my best friends joined me in a casual conversation in the snow-covered yard and garden between the houses and next to the mill. Roughly 180 years ago, friends and families stood on the same ground, talking about the day’s events, the week’s work, the future that they expected in the upcoming month or year. Though the mill is quiet now, the water still flows, the same current that drew the mill’s founding family to this spot, once the grounds of Native American clans. And when we’re gone, perhaps our children, grown up and with children or grandchildren of their own, will return here and remember, as we did, in the snow, near the old mill, between the two houses.