When I was young . . . what is young anyway?  Six or seven?  Ok, starting again: When I was a free-spirit on this earth, I spent many summers at my Nana's house in the rural mountains of West Virginia.  In my eyes, it was a farm, with cows in the pasture, chickens at our neighbor's and a great expanse of a vegetable garden.  I could hide in the rows of corn that were taller than me, pick and eat tomatoes and beans right off the vine before anyone else knew they were ripe.  I played outside from the time I got up til after I had my fill of catching fireflies; putting them in a mason jar which would then serve as a fairy lantern.  I was a wild child, running barefoot in the grass, my long hair un-brushed for days.  I was as free as the wind, unfettered by rules and inspired by nature and crawling bugs.  I could roll down our backyard hill by the road, do cartwheels and handstands in the yard, swing for hours on the tire swing and eat watermelon on the back porch, spitting the seeds as far as the wind would take them.  I would go to bed at night exhausted and excited at what the next day would bring.