I remember my mother reading to us girls for hours by the creek as we sketched in our notebooks. My father told fantastic bedtime stories that kept our imaginations awake all night. Wonderful and frightful worlds we played in, our own Never Never Land. At least I think I remember or maybe they are memories of memories. They are as elusive as they are close, like a sound you have never heard and yet if you were to hear it, you would recognize it.