There is a photograph of four-year-old me cradling a baby raccoon, bottle-feeding it milk. I remember my mother pulling out secreted glass bottles and nipples, left over from before. My father and the hired man, Steve, cut down a tree in the bush that, until too late, they didn’t realize held a nest with a female raccoon and two kittens. When the tree fell, the mother did too. My father brought the two young to the house so we could wean them. I remember the raccoons.
house: a (tiny) memoir