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The first written story I recall making was on a visit to my great aunt and uncle. I may have been 7 or 8. Uncle Clair and I drove to the woods, chopped wood, stacked it in the back of the truck and trailer, then cleaned and put away our tools. We had lunch in the front seat. I had peanut butter and home-made jam with milk. Unk ate a turkey sandwich crowded with lettuce and cheese chased down with steaming hot coffee from his worn green Thermos. Even though it was cold our windows were rolled down and the forrest chattered around us. We drove back to the house a block from the McKenzie river. Theirs had been the model home for the development. Buying that home was the first and last time they took out a loan. My aunt Bonnie painted beautiful landscapes, smoked cigarettes, and played the multi-tiered organ at home. She populated