I am a dreamer.
My earliest memories are of make believe and pretend. I could play for hours on end with little or no interaction from other humans. In fact, I often preferred the solitude–easier to control, direct and create when alone. I imagined careers for my Barbie dolls. I envisioned weddings and households and friendships and families. I conjured adventures and experiences which required bravery and daring. (I possess neither.)
My other memories are of reading. When given the “Dick and Jane” books, I distinctly remember thinking: Is this the best you can give me? I lived for trips to the library. The smells will stay with me forever. I can walk into any library as an adult and be instantly transported back in time to that little library in Galveston, Indiana. The older the library, the better. I’m not sure what goes into the mix of that distinctive library smell–dust, mildew, humans–but it is like no other smell in the world. And the instant I smell the “library smell,” I am at peace.
Once I was old enough to put two and two together, I blended my love of reading with my ever active and vigorous imagination. I wrote my first play in 7th grade. My brother and I conducted numerous “Christmas Musicales” for our tolerant and oft-times snickering family. I wrote newspaper articles. I wrote short stories. In school, I was irritated by the teachers’ restraints on my free-flowing creativity. I did not want to form my words into such preciseness.
Life is a funny thing, sometimes.  I am divorced mother of two adults and a grandmother of two precious girls. It certainly is not what I expected it to be, this thing called Life.  And the journey I am on has taken some serious twists that I did not see coming ’round the bend.
Now I am learning all over again, in my career, with new friends, and about myself.  This blog is merely a catalog of my path and where it may take me next…
