Since 1989 I have seen fit to place what I call a mischief somewhere in every book I write. It’s a little secret between myself and myself. Something inserted that remains hermetic, sealed against reader comprehension. Something only I know.
On the farm you ate everything but the squeal on the pig. Washing before dinner meant joining the threshing crew and sloshing your wrists and splashing your face in the galvanized tub then wiping your hands on a common towel,