For decades, a treasured plot of Hill Country land meant one thing to the men in my family: a chance to kill lots of deer. Today, it means something different.
The mud was deep and wet and cold and there was nothing to do but dig. And dig. And dig.
My mother trained me to be a naturalist in our suburban backyard, one bird call at a time.
Writer Rick Bass’s ornery, individualistic family has spent a generation explaining exactly who they are not.