There had been too many calls to the school principal’s office to discuss my noisy and disruptive behavior in class. (Obviously, they failed to appreciate my spirited, creative nature.) And my teachers had complained that I daydreamed too much. (Couldn’t anyone recognize a potential writer here?) And my parents were weary of my fights with my brothers, noting that the boys never questioned the rigid rules of our home. (My brothers later suffered from painful ulcers and other health ailments; however, I did not.) I grew up on an isolated potato farm near Wendell, Idaho, a nearsighted, left-handed, goofy girl with wrinkly hair and absolutely no ability to conform. Outside of farm chores, the only activity for youth in the farming community of one thousand was a program called 4-H. Desperately hoping it would help me focus, my mother enrolled me in a 4-H cooking class, with the admonition that I behave and not embarrass her. I failed both assignments. When it came my turn to do the demonstration in front of the group, I dropped a dead mouse into the cake batter because I thought it was a brilliant way to spice up the boring meetings.
What do You think about The Dog With The Old Soul?
