Why do I write? Hmm....well, sometimes I write just to write. No that's not correct. Actually I write all of the time just to write. Mostly though, I just write down what's spilling out of my head and would fall lifeless to my pillow anyhow. I must confess that not everything I write is actually my own work though. You see, sometimes squirrels come at night and deposit story nuts in my brain. They come during the day too, but mostly just at night. And what are you going to do? Turn them away? Tell them to take a hike? That would be cruel; don't you think? I mean, have you seen how short their legs are? It would take them forever to take a hike and get anywhere! Well, enough about that.
So, a little about my family. Both of my parents were only children but then they grew up and, right smack in the middle of the fifties, had me in Tacoma Washington. Well, I should actually say I assume that's what happened since I don't actually remember it personally. There were two that came before me…brothers. No sisters but there were lots of cats, dogs and other critters that entered our lives and exited way too soon.
My first actual memory is that of a little place called Noti, Oregon, just outside Eugene, when I was about four. Noti was a little tiny hamlet of less than a hundred people, but it had its own Post Office so it was still a real place according to the government. Here, we lived among the goats, had a few chickens, had very little, sold some milk and eggs and went to church. We moved away when I was just eight to the city, leaving Noti behind, and after that not much else happened that was really important.
I go to Noti sometimes in my head when the covers capture me. I drift off into the ether, the squirrels invade my brain to deposit their story nuts, and the next morning I write it all down. Sometimes those squirrels can really be pesky critters though and leave way too many nuts. When they do I end up dropping some of them and I think they come back and take them since when I go looking; they're just plain gone. I used to hunt all over for them, even looked inside the computer one time but...nothing; just gone.
Well, enough of all this. Good night Mrs. Rochester. Your first grade class was wonderful. I still don't know why you gave that Scotch tape tin to that other boy though. I'm still in therapy over that one.