We lived outdoors when we were kids, my siblings and I. Spent most of our days forging the creek, hunting for snakes under hot rocks, making mud pies and searching for those ever-elusive fairies.

I’d criss cross tiny, uniform sticks into four walls, construct a roof from spiny blades of grass, braid buttercups along the trim and lay a quartz path to the burnt bark door. Foxtails were arranged like headstones on a bed of moss and mistletoe hung from each corner of the hut. The final touch was the fairy pool. A hole, dredged by hand and filled with creek water. Each handful soaking into the earth before the next could arrive.