Memory Bank
When I was ten, my family and I spent a week camping on the White River, just below Bull Shoals hydroelectric dam in northern Arkansas. We weren’t there for leisure. My father, just out of the military and trying to make a start in construction, had taken on a restoration project in nearby Mountain Home. To save him the three-hour commute up from Little Rock each day, we camped.
Our old tent was made of blue-and-white canvas, and my recollection of the nights I slept inside its shelter is inseparable
