Respected.

As a little kid growing up in Michigan, I was taught to take care of myself by taking care of where I lived and played.

My parents took my sister and me camping regularly. Camping meant woods and water, camping meant fishing. Most of what I remember about camping trips involves reading, fishing, and fires ... oh, and the smell of bacon cooking on the Coleman stove (I think Coleman is responsible for the fact that my favorite color is green.  Diffie's got "John Deere Green," I may write a song called "Coleman Green")

Sense memory has taught me that cookies smell like my Mum's kitchen, the sweet smell of freshwater fish remind me of my Dad.

I remember fishing the drop-off of Higgins Lake on a quick-to-warm summer morning. I had been out on the water with my sis, Uncle Fred, and Dad since well before sunrise. The air was periodically scented with coffee, pipe smoke, and two-cycle outboard exhaust and bluegill. The morning's fishing was successful, but the thing that sticks in my mind about that day was the beauty of the place.

Warmth sent the fish deeper, but even as they sank to cooler water, I could see them and the shadow of the boat on the bottom of the lake's sandy bottom.  The water was gin-clear, uncommonly clear and it left a lasting impression on me.

The fish were brightly colored.

Clean.

Because it was appreciated.

And respected.

I was taught that first.