I wanted to write poetry almost a little more than I wanted to eat.

The years rolled their brutal course down the hill of time. Still poor, my clothes still smelling of the horse barn, still writing those doubtful poems where too much emotion clashed with too many words.

Our small ears never had such a workout as on the Fourth of July, hearing not only our own bursting crackers but also those of our friends, and often the boom of homemade cannon shot off by daring boys of 16 years, ready to lose a hand if it blew up.

Other families bought automobiles; we had a horse-headed hitching post in front of our house and drove horses.

To eat in the same room where food is cooked - that is the way to thank the Lord for His abundance.

Touch was important. The evening of the Third of July we would go around the neighborhood and look at the fireworks others had bought, taking them out of the brown paper sack and handling them cautiously as if they were precious stones. There was envy when we saw sacks with more in them than we had.

I wanted to write poetry almost a little more than I wanted to eat.