As I stand on the cold, rotten wooden boards of a half-torn down rustic shack currently being used as storage for old tools and bales of hay, my imagination flickers to images of my grandmother's tales of growing up. My grandmother comes from New Zealand and ever since I can remember, I have listened to her stories of her childhood and living in a country that I have experienced only through photographs and my imagination. Now as I stand here, in the crumbling remains of the place that she once called home, I feel the impact that her stories have had on me.
Grandmother's stories are so viv…
