Smithsonian.com ran a great story recently about a family discovered living in Siberia who, in more than 40 years, had no contact with the outside world. They ate only what they could grow or gather. When their clothes wore out, they grew flax, spun it into fabric, and made their own. Their only source of entertainment was telling each other the stories of their dreams.
I can relate to that last part. We do that almost every morning at the breakfast table. Alice, who as we've already learned has a shaky grasp of the concept of sleep, usually sees this as a time to tell seemingly endless tales in which she finds and hugs bears.
Jane told the above story a few weeks ago. It sounded authentic to me.
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