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Bengta Boydstrom
I grew up on a dairy farm near the New York-Pennsylvania border. We had wood stoves, well water and kerosene lamps. We raised all our own food except for tea, coffee, sugar and flour. Grades one through five were spent in a one-room schoolhouse. Then the district was centralized and I found myself shifted to the village school where I never quite fitted in. In high school, every year I would tell them I wanted to be a writer or work in broadcasting, and they would sign me up for another semester of home economics.
Finally, in my junior year, a new guidance counselor arrived and she was det more...
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