When I was five years old and all of three feet tall, my dad took me to Old McDonald’s Fish Camp, where all sorts of animals ran rampant, and offered me a hundred dollars if I could catch a guinea fowl. To me, that might as well have been a million dollars and I was determined to catch one of those polka-dotted birds. I chased them all over the dirt lot. The knees of my overalls were covered in mud and my hair had long since escaped the confines of the pigtails that had neatly kept it out of my face. My dad chuckled as I would sprint into a pack of guineas, scattering them in different directions, warbling their worry out loud, and then pounce, only to land on the hard dusty ground. Not to be defeated, I would pick myself up and continue the process again, with my goal of one hundred dollars and the glory of disproving my doubting father always on my mind. After chasing for what seemed like hours, I had one cornered. Wedged between a fence and myself, I knew there was no escape for this bird. I readied myself to grab his feathery body but as I closed in, he flew right over my head. My face was a mix of surprise and devastation, just like that of someone who had a million dollars slip out of their grasp. Astonished, I turned to my dad and exclaimed, “You didn’t tell me they could fly!”