Ironically, having just said in the “Why Life and Breath” section, that it’s not about me, I need to write about me. Well, I am senior. I remember using rotary phones and cassette tapes, watching My Friend Flicka on a black and white tv, and zipping down playground slides that scorched your bottom, even when you were wearing shorts beneath your dress. I was around for desegregation, the first moon landing, the assassination of John F. Kennedy, and the polio vaccine. My generation played outdoors until twilight, drank from the water hose and tightened its skates with skate keys. When we got older, we wore mini-skirts, fishnet stockings and go-go boots. We were cool. . .
I emerged from higher education with degrees in biology, married a classmate and had five children: one daughter and four sons, who have produced nine grandchildren so far. I have an animal addiction, so we have had: goats, horses, ferrets, fish, tarantulas, crayfish, rabbits, cats and dogs. Presently, I have four herding dogs who, since they have a fondness (especially the Aussie) for moving in circles around my feet, are probably going to be the death of me. I’m ok with this.
Writing is something I’ve done since I wrote those first stunning essays on wide lined paper with space up top for illustration—back when you had to print your clumsy letters around teeny chunks of wood that were sometimes trapped in the paper. And, at 71, I still like writing and illustrating.