Jan. 7, 2020 10:47 hours PST ... --- ... A theme to tie all my stories together, that is the elusive question. One of the earliest stories I remember clearly happened at age 3. I was living near Houston, Texas because my father was on a temporary assignment, working for the government as a scientist pre NASA days. I was out playing in the fenced yard using sticks to build a house for my doll. My mom came to get me for lunch and I showed her the worms I had found. She immediately, in a micro flash, knocked them out of my hand, grabbed me and drug me into the house. She explained they were poisonous snakes, Copperheads. The babies are just as deadly as the big ones. This instilled a fear of snakes that I still suffer. I hate snakes, even the nice ones. Now how do I tie this to my next notable memory at the feed store, age 8. I was at the feed store with my daddy on my birthday. I had just picked out a pocket knife for my gift. They let me have it while my dad put in his order for feed and other supplies. I wandered to the back where the feed was loaded. A wonderful kind dark-skinned man, that had known me for years, loaded the feed and while he waited for the next order, he carved on his walking stick. He was loading when I wandered back and felt the call to test my new knife. I sat down and started carving on his stick. My dad came back and saw me about the time the loader did. He spoke first, and it suddenly struck me what I had done. He said, "Well that's a mighty fine carving, Faetta." I apologized for not asking permission because I knew that is what my father would request. He said no problem because I was an artist and welcome to carve on his stick every time I visited the store. Now how do I tie all these diverse stories to one common theme that would make an interesting book? What would I title such an eclectic and eccentric life? Now toss in the story of the one time our girl band visited the beach and played surf music. Picture us all in tight miniskirts and tall white go-go boots. This was in-between junior and senior year, and one of the girls had an aunt living near the beach that hosted us for a week. Mountain cowgirls turned beach chicks for a week. One week preparing and cooking mountain oysters, then the next week preparing and cooking ocean oysters. Even a title for such a book eludes me.