Once upon a time this grove of trees surrounded a little plain weathered brown house where I was born in 1932. The location is in Penrose Wyoming, a little valley by the Shoshone River 12 miles west of Powell Wyoming in northwest Wyoming. I lived and grew up the first nine years of my life in this little house with no running water, heated by coal and cottonwood chunks, no electricity until 1937, no washing machine, an hour each way to school at Powell Wyoming on the ancient and primitive school bus, no indoor plumbing. In many ways these nine years were the most formative years of my life. We weathered the Great Depression under my mother's watchful and frugal care while my dad was gone most of the time trying to find a day's work here and there. We had no car while dad was gone, and we had no telephone. But we ran among the apple trees and the cottonwoods in the summer and tromped through the high snow drifts in the winter and scraped the ice crystals from the bedroom windows so we could see outside. We had very few toys, very few books, very little of anything. But I and my (then) three sisters used our imaginations and invented things to do, schemes to act out, holes to be dug in the orchard to hide away from mother where she could not (we thought) find us, strawberries and peas and corn and radishes and carrots and everything else that would grow in the summer to pick, with the wind whistling through and around the tall cottonwoods and lulling us to sleep in the summer. Now in the autumn, if not the winter, of my life, I look back on those struggling years with longing and gratitude to my parents, and especially my mother, for perseverance and for the love that kept us bound together through the blizzards of winter and the violent thunder storms of summer. We grew and we survived and we prospered in all the things that mattered.