“My family’s home was always a source of comfort–weekends awaking to the smells of bacon and Scrapple filling the household, the sound of clattering pots and scraping pans, outside, the braying of a neighbor’s distant jackass and our own comforting mewling of sheep. I’d climb out of bed, facing the streaming light of an easterly view and see my cow, the one I called Maysie but whom Father insisted was named Cow. Each day, she would point her square nose at my window and moo quiet indignations until I arose and came to renew her feed and ease her burdensome udders.

“Sister would be bounding through the house like an ill-aimed rocket, and my older brother, the bully, would be trying to corral her energy as fuel for his day of discordance. Father would be up by the time my chores began; it was he, after all, who awoke the…