You've got me thinking now. My father managed a religious book store (I have not written about that), but my uncle was a farmer who grew apples. I would spend time there with my cousin, staying on summer holidays. Life there seemed "more real." More hands-on. There was energy. Different smells. There were horses. I loved going to the barn.

As you say, everybody helped. The kids. The adults. The hired hands. Life there was more dangerous, too. One spring, my boy cousin fell through the ice on their pond and drowned. I was six. I had not yet known that children could die. It doesn't get more real than that.

Thanks for making me think, Sarah.