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Some of my earliest memories are of staring up at my mother from my appropriately named Walker, “the grunge wagon”, as the pressure cooker sang to her and she filled jar after jar with vegetables from her garden and fruit from the orchard that spread into the sunset at the west side of the house. On late summer afternoons as the temperatures began to slide into fall, the light streaming through the window above the sink would send little ripples of light refracting through the unfilled jars on the kitchen table and sprinkle light across the clay colored tiles on the floor as the wind picked up in front of approaching thunderheads rolling across the fields at the edge of the orchard and the drop in pressure would suck the open door shut. The white hurricane of 77-78 would be chasing fall across those same fields in a few short months but we would be well prepared. 

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