Woman of Words

I loved writing from the moment I first scribbled my imaginings onto the page. I understood that once I could capture my stories they became more than a child's flights of fancy. They gained some kind of weight, they gained substance and form. They also acquired a permanence that eluded me when I shared 'important' moments with grown-ups. I recall hundreds of times asking one or the other parent, "Don't you remember? I tole you that already." But if I could imprint the details of a happening or encounter onto paper, it became real. It was irrefutable because it was written down and therefore it must be true. Except for fairy tales and made-up stories, except they were much more real to me than any tale told me by an aunt or grandparent. 

I spent many afternoons and entire summers at Emerson Public Library. It was about a mile from my house which made it too far to walk so Momma had to drive me. It was my place of refuge, my sanctuary - a haven for a precocious kid, a lonely adolescent, a troubled teen. I read early. The first big book I read all the way through was Moby Dick. I was 5 years old. I could easily sound out most of the words; the dictionary, my constant companion, helped with the others. I was not impressed.

My kindergarden teacher, Mrs. Fields, who wore A-line skirts and a bouffant hair-do, told me she had brought me something and set a heavy cardboard box onto the desk. It was taller than me so she had to help. Together we opened it and joy and surprise seized my heart in equal parts. She had gifted me her entire Nancy Drew collection!