On being the youngest, the magic of old stories, and the diary that keeps love blooming.

I was a surprise—a baby sister no one saw coming.
When I was born, my sister Phyllis was 13, and my brother Doug was 16. My parents were older—Mom was 40, Dad 50. I was unexpected, but apparently, I arrived with mystery. Phyllis liked to tell me I came crawling up the sidewalk, left behind by a caravan of gypsies.

“Did they pull into the driveway?” I’d ask. “Or did I have to crawl up the whole icy driveway and sidewalk myself—in Minnesota?”
I believed her story for a while. Truthfully, I kind of liked the idea of gypsies.

This story is woven in both word and image. Visual collaborators featured in the full Substack story include: 

My Mom and Dad, siblings Phyllis & Doug, niece Rachel, nephew Josh.

 If this glimpse speaks to you, the full reflection is on Substack.

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Stories of land, love, and eco-fashion—rooted in memory, made with care.
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