One day when we lived in the woods I walked up our drive with the kids and found a man parked in a car looking down at the place where our house set. He was writing something on a clipboard. He was startled when I knocked on his car window. He rolled it down quickly. What are you doing? “Tax man here.” I was carrying Sasha, our son, and holding Charlotte’s hand. “I’m just the tax man!” he said again. Our house was illegal, but a lot of people lived in illegal houses. He held up his hands. “Lady, I don’t care what you’re doing. I don’t care what you’re growing. All I care about are taxes. I’m the tax man.” He was afraid of me: a woman in a long skirt with two young children. I looked down at our little tar paper house. If I was growing pot our house wouldn’t have looked like that, mister.