Growing up on a northeast Iowa farm, I was imprinted with 180-degree skies—stunning orange-red sunsets, a quilt of stars against midnight, brilliant lightning cracking wide a purple dome—and the delicate cadence and subtle contours of rolling hills. The special scent of summer rain. The luminous black earth. Scent of fresh-mown hay. Delicate flavor of newly dug potatoes. The particular feel of soil drying my hands. The fuzz of zinnia stems. My thumbnails green from shelling peas. The swish of corn stalks taller than my head as I walked between rows.
These shaped my sense of place.
