Author David Osborn wrote Saunderstown as a memoir of his childhood summers with his brother and best friend ninety-five years ago while at his grandmother’s home on Narragansett Bay. With the sole restraint of respect for adults as well as prompt appearance at meals, and with little or no rules as to where they went and what they did, the bay was theirs and an endless source of adventure, some of it pretty hairy-scary. Adventures over, it was the magic of Grandma’s ancient horse and buggy–days barn, and make-believe war with Grandpa’s great opposing armies of lead soldiers lined up on the outdoor paddock dirt and grass between flanking box stalls occupied by silently watching horses. Then, at summer’s end, it was riding and the unrestrained joy of racing those same horses down a long mile of completely empty white sandy beach.