There stood a wise old farmhouse that faced a cascade of green hills, which reached all the way to Pennsylvania, nestled in the Catskills of NY. The walls inside have hummed along to nursery rhymes, shed tears alongside those who wept, yawned with the sleepy mother nursing her newborn, listened intently to the prayers over clasped hands of the faithful, and brimmed over with joy and tireless love.
My blossom on the youthful tree of life was not attractive. By age 11, I was a near-sighted, left-handed, gangly, goofy girl with wrinkly hair and absolutely no ability to conform. Outside of chores, the only activity for youth in the southern Idaho farming community of 1,000 people was a program called 4-H.