I first remember the Romance calling to me when I was a boy of six or seven, just past dusk on a summer evening, when the hotter and dustier work of the farm had given way to another song. Something warm and alive and poignantly haunting would call to me from the mysterious borders of the farm that was my world. I would walk toward it, past the corrals where our milk cows rested, down through rows of dark green corn that towered far above my head. The corn, imperious in its height and numbers, presented its own kind of Enchanted Forest. Every leaf that gave way before my outstretched arms offered possible mystery… There in the moonlight I would squat down on my heels near the water's edge, letting my toes sink into the cool sand....