I grew up on a diary farm. It was the best, my own small universe was huge and sparsely populated—just they way I like it. The lawn was large and had giant peony plants at one end. Two red maples were in front of the house that had been planted when my dad was little. Summers where humid, green and introspective. (Yes, even when I was six I was looking into myself and asking big questions.)

In the winter all the snow from the laneway would be dumped into a giant pile and my dad would carve out the best forts ever.

We only had five channels, no internet and my mom made us go outside all the time. I credit this for my imagination, my independence and my love of outdoors.