Back when I was a snaggle-toothed whippersnapper, I loved to spend time with my wild and fearless farm cousins. I was intrigued by how high they could scale Grandpa’s trees, scrambling up the trunk, reaching their skinny arms up for the next branch, swinging high above the ground.
I stood safe on terra firma and feared one would fall at my feet and their courageous necks would snap like twigs. They saw me as a first-rate, city-slicker chicken. I saw them wheelchair-bound for life.