Here’s my problem: I figure I’ve got about 30 years left in this life, and there is only one of the Little Tickles left for me to read. I read my first one during Ordinary Time last year, and finished up the Winter collection on a cold night several days ago. They are so brief, so rich, so understated. Somehow, they are both expansive and small at the same time, as her little stories encompass so much of life without ever leaving her little farm outside Memphis, Tennessee. It’s all here: life, death, indulgence, want, sex, pain, longing, growth, work, cold, warmth, fear, love, and above all, a satisfaction with and celebration of life itself. Phyllis extolls such an embodied life that one at first longs to move to The Farm in Lucy, until the slow realization occurs that such a life is where, and when, and how one makes it.