![]() At age ten, my first ‘novel’ was about an ant that meets other insects, good and bad, during her journeys. The fascinating variety, and often brutal interactions, of insects provided drama that distracted me from my own harsh world. ![]() I discovered how to be still and gentle with animals from teaching squirrels and baby cottontails to feed from my hand. Whole new worlds could be explored by the simple act of turning over a rock. The yard was an important escape for me when situations in my house became unbearable. The snow storm of fluffy seeds that came from our three cottonwood trees every summer was magical. We had untamed thickets of concord grapes and raspberries, currant bushes, an old tangled apple tree, and overgrown lilacs, peonies, and irises. ![]() But my yard had more wildlife than most because my mother had planted it with fruits and flowers that grew ever wilder as her mental illness subdued her interest in gardening. I was raised in a Chicago neighbourhood where ‘nature’ was small yards with mowed lawns, a few trees, and trimmed shrubs. ![]()
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