In 1934, in February, when the dust was still so thick in the Minnesota air that my parents
couldn’t always see from the house to the barn, their fifth child – a fourth daughter – was
born. My father hunted rabbits daily, and my mother stewed them, fried them, canned
them, and wished out loud that she could taste hamburger once more. In the fall the
shotgun brought prairie chickens, ducks, pheasant, and grouse. My mother plucked each
bird, carefully reserving the breast feathers for pillows.