Necessarily, any account of her life, either before she entered anthropology or afterwards, when told from any one point of view is unusually incomplete. She kept us all in separate rooms and moved from one to another with no one following to take notes. I visited her once at her summer home in New Hampshire, and I saw her husband three times. I never saw the family farm in the Shenango Valley. Before her death, I had met her mother and her sister only twice. Several of her closest friends I have never even seen. These all belonged in another part of life — as anthropology and poetry were separate worlds into which these others did not come in person.