I grew up with a healthy respect for nature. Actually, that’s a bit of an understatement. My childhood was basically a John Denver song. My elementary school was Rocky Mountain High – we were at about 7400 feet in the Colorado foothills – we learned how to read and write, yes, but only so we could understand the rest of schooling which was food webs and birds of prey and DDT and chlorofluorocarbons and how to snip the plastic rings from your six-pack so that a sea turtle didn’t die.
As a preteen, I moved with my family to a little town outside of Missoula, Montana, which is where hippies get to be reborn if they live a very good life and minimize the pain they inflict on other creatures. It’s basically where granola was invented. It’s a lovely little place where everyone you know has some sort of a connection to heirloom tomatoes or colloidal silver and your younger siblings come into the world at the hands of a midwife in your mother’s bedroom downstairs while you’re asleep.