It all started at 8:33 PM, in Utah, on a December day, where I grew up, as a non-mormon, until I was sixteen-point-five-years-old [16.5].
Herbie Larson was my mentor and hero.
As a small child of three, I would bind my feet with the belt from my bath robe and request viewing, “Sayonara,” over and over and over again.
Then, there were the MGM musicals my aunt would have me watch in the middle of the night to keep her company while she waited up for my uncle, hence, my seeing the aforementioned film.
Every Halloween, I would demand to dress up as a geisha.
When queried as to what I wanted to be when I grew up, invariably, I would reply, “Japanese.”
At the age of eight, my aunt, she of the MGM fame, informed me that I had to be BORN Japanese.
I was crushed.
Thankfully, James Clavell wrote, “Shōgun,” which I have read five  times.
Also, my happiest days were spent with my Nana and Papa on their farm. Papa convinced me that irrigating was a pleasurable activity. To this very day, I adore feeding chickens.
Additionally, having the Rocky Mountains as my childhood playground, the great american outdoors still resonates within my soul despite having lived on three  continents and twelve  states as an adult.