When I was a young girl I went to a place called Blueberry Hill near Little Bras D'or on Cape Breton Island, and sat on an ant hill. A red ant hill. I carry the memory of being bitten a thousand times by angry little bugs in my head like it was yesterday. Forty three years later I still cringe at the humiliation of being stripped to my birthday suit in front of perfect strangers as my dad desperately tried to shake the tenacious little jerks loose. When we returned to my grandmother's …
