Every empty chair By Henry H. Walker My memory goes back to being a kid up here, to having kids up here, to countless times when my physical and social hunger were fed, and fed well, I love to pore over old pictures and remember all those I've loved who have circled here for a time, circles that have held me and them with hot biscuits and cold tea, with old familiar courses and new delights for our hunger, the camaraderie itself fed a hunger that is still with me,