In the summers of late, summers where I and not Mama tell myself what to do, it is the sore thumb I miss the most. Just the other day, I rubbed my pointer finger over the edge of my thumb and I missed the tenderness that attached itself to that appendage and stayed there from July until mid-August. Oh, I had a couple of pricks and ouches on that thumb. I had picked up a splinter from the boarded fence at the barn when I was feeding the horses. Then, the next day, as I trimmed the rose bushes – with gloves on – I had stuck a thorn in and ripped a bit of flesh away. I’m a farm girl, though, who pays little attention to any such. That’s how I was raised. I’d see Mama with a cut on her hand and ask, “How’d you get that?” She’d shrug and say, “I don’t know how I did that.”