Whenever I come across something that is beautifully written, I copy the phrase, the paragraph, or the lines in a journal. What I will do with these journals, where my sometimes illegible handwriting makes it impossible to decipher what is copied, is unimportant; I record these “words” because of a love for language and an admiration for writers who ably convey something memorable, profound, or glorious with words.

I inherited the desire for words. Growing up among readers, the longing for story and writing lies deep within. My Aunt Harriett researched and wrote fondly of family genealogy, and my father dabbled in writing short stories, and at the end of his life, penned his memoir.

Loving to read and write, I majored in English, and in my classroom as a career, English teacher, relished the eloquent prose and poetry of literature, and unashamedly gushed over imagery and narrative like a pubescent girl for a boy band.

Whenever I visit with family or friends, the commonality of these relationship revolves around the telling of stories; fused together by laughter, by nostalgia or memory, or centered around a historical event, the fuel of gatherings runs on the telling of story.

That’s why I write, and as a “wanna be” story teller, I write what I know — family.

Born in Jacksonville, Florida, in 1954, my parents raised me and my three siblings in a Christian home. Thankful for the upbringing I had, I have been blessed with a twenty-five year marriage, a large extended family, and a rewarding career as a high school English teacher. When I retired from teaching, I began a nonsense blog that evolved into book reviews and stories of my childhood. My husband and I live outside Atlanta with our naughty cat, Tallulah.