The family had a hill farm in the border lands between England and Scotland made little money but her father loved it dearly.
He was happy getting up before the sun broke through, looking after stock, mending dry stone walls, injecting sheep against the dozen or so diseases they were prone to, doing all the kinds of job that needed doing on the farm at any time of the year.
Her father was a big man but though he was still tall, he now stooped. He had lived a hard life but it was the life he had chosen for himself and he never regretted it nor complained.
Sharon's mother never complained either nor gave any sign of resentment for toughness of her daily life. She worked as hard as her husband, indoors and out. She made the bread they ate, fed the hens and collected their eggs, killed them
