That changed one July when Aunt Frieda exploded through the kitchen door. “Deer! Deer! Deer!” she hollered. We rushed outside, the screen door slapping behind us, and stood on the stoop, dumbfounded. There, flashing through our green corn leaves, leaped three red, long-necked, long-legged deer. A doe and twin fawns, tails high, wide, and flashing through the field, headed to the cottonwoods and the creek. “Deer,” my aunt half-whispered. The first she’d ever seen. “There they go. It looks like they’re waving goodbye.” But those white tails weren’t waving goodbye to me. They were waving me over, calling me to follow, calling me home to a place I’d never been before, and from which I would never return.