In the early morning hours, on October 23, 1934, the dark skies that had lingered for days over the small town of Winstead finally moved westward. Long before the rooster crowed, I was born. My parents, Ivy and Patch Mahoney, wrapped me in a cloth torn from an old bed sheet. After giving thanks to the Lord, they held me in their arms.

Exhausted and content, Ivy ran her hand over my silken hair, and then turned to her husband. "Let's call her Pennith. Pennith Noreen."

Patch smiled and kissed his wife on the forehead.

I shared my unusual first name with my father's only sibling who drowned years earlier in the shallow river that flowed due east of the family farm. Noreen was an old, Irish name passed down from earlier generations. In our crowded house, my mother had no place to put me except in the middle drawer of an old bureau that, until my arrival, held her best and only china. When cool weather arrived, a threadbare blanket protected me from the winds that whistled through the cracked double-hung windows. Upon their births, my older siblings were wrapped in crocheted blankets made by nearby relatives and neighboring families. Those blankets have since come and gone.

My mother and her siblings were born and raised in the same clapboard house on Creston Street that I would later grow up in. My maternal grandparents were poultry farmers, selling eggs and live chickens, with the hope they would always be able to support their family. My grandfather, a crotchety old man who preferred to keep to himself, built the chicken coop in the backyard decades earlier. Although the paint had peeled, and the thin wood had weathered and chipped away seasons before, the coop remained next to the single-hole outhouse, which was also original to the farm. An indoor bathroom had since been added to the house, but just as in the outhouse, one always had to be on the lookout for snakes and other small varmints.

As with most families who called Winstead their home, my grandparents lived with us. When my own parents married, my grandparents surrendered the largest bedroom, a small room at the front of the house, moving only their bed sheets to the smaller, oddly shaped room down the hall that would later become the bedroom I shared with my sisters. A talented storyteller with a creative and unleashed imagination, Ollabelle, my grandmother, captivated me with the stories she shared of her own childhood experiences. Because it was her favorite memory, she often repeated the story about the time she let loose a corral of horses. They belonged to Homely Homer Hamstill, Winstead's only quarter horse breeder. Before the day was over, she had ridden Lightning, an eighteen-hand mare, through the town's cemetery. Telling the story over and over again, it always ended with her saying, "Don't ever do that. I spent hours patching grass and asking forgiveness from the dead. Corralling the horses back into the barn was no picnic, either."

When my grandmother was spotted making a squatting run to the outhouse, word spread like wildfire. Once she pulled the door closed, my brothers took turns on the tire swing, slamming their feet into the side of the outhouse until she finished her business. Having grown tired of the practical jokes the young boys played on her, and refusing to succumb to the harsh elements Kansas' four distinct seasons delivered, she preferred to empty her bladder into a pee-pot she kept near her bed. In the early morning hours, long before the rest of the house was awake, she would mosey along through heavy snow, sweltering heat, or a deluge of rain, to empty her pee-pot into the unappealing outhouse. There were occasions, however, when my grandmother, aging and almost blind, stepped out of bed and into the pee-pot, spilling the contents onto the hardwood floor under her feet. On one occasion, I overheard her complain that her flow no longer went from north to south, but from east to west. When I asked my mother about this, I was told not to give my grandmother's directions a second thought.

My grandfather passed away years before my grandmother. His death was rarely mentioned and the daily chores that were once his became those of my brothers. Departing this life during the night, my grandmother passed away at the age of seventy-one. I was only twelve. Until county officials informed my parents that burials on residential properties were no longer allowed, my grandparents rested side by side near Uncle Vern's pasture. If she were watching from heaven, I imagined my grandmother had a few words to say when she was uprooted from her home and moved to the local cemetery.

Having followed her own mother around the kitchen, my mother became an exceptional cook. Like my grandmother, she never followed a recipe. Using ripe vegetables from the garden, she could prepare a tasty meal. When summer's fruits were not made into jellies and jams, they were stored in the cellar with an abundance of garden vegetables, to be appreciated in the winter months.

In the pantry where my mother prepared family meals were floor-to-ceiling cabinets. A crippled table in the center of the room displayed the wayward carvings knives left behind when bread and vegetables were sliced. A window overlooking the side yard anchored the small space, and when my mother baked sweet crisps, a hint of vanilla lingered about for days.

Offering an easy way of life, and months of muddied roads, Winstead was a sleepy, Mid-western town surrounded by slaughterhouses, cornfields, and cattle farms. Friends and relatives who visited were encouraged to tour the remains of a 1931 Model W plane that came to rest in Mr. Goering's pasture. Piloted without proper navigation, the plane ran out of gas on its way to Ponca City, Oklahoma. After gliding for several miles, the pilot made a steep turn and missed a cleared road on which he could have made a safe landing. He had no choice but to crash in the rough terrain amongst the startled cattle. Several months after the unfortunate incident, the pilot returned to reclaim his plane, only to find the grazing cattle had eaten the canvas off its wings and fuselage, and migrating Cliff Swallows nested in the cockpit. Opting to leave the plane behind, the pilot returned to his home in Wichita Falls, Texas.

Winstead was not a place where worldly tourists came to vacation, but for the people who lived there, it was rich in family history. The residents called the little town a close-knit community. Oppressive humidity and high temperatures delivered swarms of blood-sucking horseflies, mosquitoes, and the familiar stench of cow patties. Warm Chinook winds frequently blew over the nearby fields, leaving a cloud of dust in their wake. Lying in the river plain, Winstead's skyline did not offer much. What little it did, continued for miles.

"Flatter than a flit," my grandfather would always say about Winstead.

I grew up in a time when parents and grandparents did not have to keep a watchful eye on the young children. Not only were neighborhoods safe, but the neighboring towns and surrounding communities were, too.

When the evenings were cool, my father would sit outdoors on a folding chair, sipping buttermilk. When he could afford one, he would enjoy a cigarette. His time outside was his escape from the cackling and laughter the ladies made inside the house. When the women disrupted his quiet, he would look to the front door, mumble under his breath, and then close his eyes. Sometimes my mother would send...