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When I was a girl, I walked to school. One day, I noticed a blossom growing in a farmer’s garden. I pulled the vine through the slats, outside the fence. As it grew, I decorated the gourd with designs I carved into the flesh for the feast of the fall harvest. I brought the gourd home and hid it in my room. During the time for drawing holy water from the well, I placed it on the table outside, which was set for the feast with plates of seed cakes and fruit. Grandfather saw me and asked the story of the gourd. I told him. “Thief!” He said, “You stole from the farmer!” Before mother could stop me, I threw the gourd to the ground and a plate as well. When I was older, I was sent to a modern school. I came home for the feast of John Barleycorn. Grandfather asked me what I had learned. “I learned the General’s birthday was August 17 1629” Grandfather looked at me and grew angry. “Birthdays? Birthdays?” He asked. “You learned” he said, “that babies are born, but great men die.” For the feast of the fall harvest, my daughter and I carved a gourd on the table outside. For the feast of John Barleycorn, we made dumplings. That evening as I danced with the women, I held her on my shoulders