With my most heartfelt gratitude:
To my agent, Jenny Bent, for believing in this book before it was written, and my editor, Jeanette Perez, for helping me uncover the vision to complete it.
To Mark, Sheryl, and Georgia Sergent, without whom this story could never have happened. Thank you for letting me live in the Slanted Little House and for always being there for me, and especially to Georgia for being my first and most important inspiration of the self-sufficient country woman I wanted to become.
To my moderators on the Chickens in the Road forum—Pete, Deb, Cindy, Dede, and Astrid—for keeping things running smoothly when I was too busy and who are always there with a listening ear. Extra thanks to Cindy Pierce for teaching me to make soap, making me laugh, and for so many other things, and to Dede Kelly for her wisdom about all types of home preserving and her generosity in sharing it. To Debbie Monroe, for not just being a cleaning lady but becoming a friend. And to “my last five friends,” Kat, Kacey, Margery, Michelle, and Vicki, for being there for me for so long.
To all my readers, old and new, for reading—this book is for you.
To all my neighbors, old and new, for still speaking to me after I write about them. Unless they don’t know. Then let’s not mention it.
To Jerry Waters, for driving that huge truck through the rising waters of the river ford in the rain, without which I couldn’t have moved from Stringtown Rising, and for his generosity in taking photos of me and some of my recipes for this book.
To my ex-husband, Gerald, for helping me move from Stringtown Rising and for paving the way on short notice for me to buy Sassafras Farm. To my three children, Ross, Weston, and Morgan, for putting up with me as their mother—for all the times they had to walk miles in the snow because I was too scared to drive, all the times they had to carry wood up to the house for the woodstove, all the times dinner was late because I was photographing it, and for moving to West Virginia with me. To my parents, for loving me when they didn’t understand me.
Last but not least, to 52, for teaching me to make fire and milk a cow, and for many other things, including loving me the best he could.