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My parents were intensely involved in their relationship with each other, never peaceful, and they were busy with the work of the farm. They did, however, try to give me things that made up for my isolation. My father built a miniature green house under a large tree in the back yard. It had a swinging dutch door, a little window with a window box, and a window in the back. Over the years it served as a museum for abandoned birds' nests, a store to sell groceries from the garden, and a detective's office. My mother arranged 13 years of piano lessons and made sure I practiced. It was the kind of gift that is all the more loving for the comprehension that any gratitude that may come for it will be many years down the road. On my seventh birthday, my mother made a list of gifts from friends and relatives: 
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