I painted things when my little ones were coaxed to the creek to catch craw-daddies and get mud behind their ears. I had the sun on the back of my neck when I stretched it looking over the rise of the little road to see the corn reaching up from the glen with golden fingers into the August sky. I rested my paintbrush in the dirt when my son ran back to camp with a tiny dead fish in his water wrinkled fingers. He asked me to cook it for him. When I told him it was too small to cook and made him throw it back into the creek I saw him steal a taste. He licked it's white belly and then threw it overhand into the clear water where I'm sure it settled to the bottom and found it's way into the bellies of the craw-dads. All the while behind me, my daughter changed from her soaking wet mud-shoes into my dry sandals and was charmed away to another campfire by intriguing musical instruments.