I grow stuff.
Like bachelor button memories. My first garden sprouted from asphalt. Armed with a screw driver and hammer, I carefully chipped away a square foot of hardened tar from our apartment parking lot. Then I sneaked some of Mom’s potting soil and planted the bachelor button seeds given to me by the grocer. That patch of blue in a sea of black made me and everyone else smile. I’ve been a gardener ever since.
Like circus memories. Clowns, elephants, acrobats, foot long hot dogs, all within blocks of where I lived. Since we lived next to railroad tracks, the circus unloaded all its treasures practically in my front yard. An elephant lifted a neighbor high in the air and she screamed in horror while I giggled because we could see her underpants. I see humor everywhere.
Like boxcar friend memories. My very best friend in second grade was Marjorie and she lived in a boxcar, just like the kids in the book. Once she came to our apartment for dinner and Mom served green olives along with fried pork chops, boiled potatoes, and canned peas. Marjorie had never tasted olives before and spit them half chewed onto her plate. She also poured ketchup over everything, including the peas. Friendships old and new have always been important to me.
Like animal rescue memories. I rescued Bailey, my beloved cockapoo, after his owner committed suicide. He’s now twelve, or maybe thirteen, and snores like an old man under my bed. Countless cats have come and gone. Only three live with me now, that is until the next pathetic meow reaches my ears. I can’t resist a sad story.
Like teaching kids to write experiences. I love seeing my students fall in love with words like tipsy, windowsill, sassypants, glissando, entourage, lips, gnarled, mayfly, and ratatouille. I watch them hear voices other than their own, get into the heads of funky people, and write down those conversations. Kids growing into writers, what a thrill.
Like daughter and grandbaby family memories. My daughter, who won my heart the moment I got her picture from the adoption agency, and my grandbaby Henry are the real reasons I write books. When Henry stayed overnight this past weekend, he told me, “Read a story with your mouth, Boppy.” I love telling stories.
These books grew from my memories and my experiences. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I did writing them. And may you carry on by “reading a story with your mouth” to your loved ones.