Among my earliest recollections of childhood is seeing the golden glow that peeked from under the door of my brother’s bedroom. It was predawn and that glimmer was the only source of light. From my bed I could hear him rustling around in there, zipping up the sleeping bag he slept in every night on top of his bedspread and quietly dressing. His fishing, or sometimes trapping, gear waited on the back porch, having been carefully packed up the night before. I recall a palpable anticipation about these early morning rituals, frequent as they were. I think the sleepy house itself could feel the excitement. You wouldn't think that a little girl like me would be included in trips like these, but once a year or so my brother allowed me to tag along. Believe me, I was a burden. Eight years younger than Rick, I was more suited to hand washing doll clothes in a soapy basin on Sherry’s back porch than cooking a “sunny” with a stick down its throat on an open fire. But that’
Art. Herbs. Everything.