I love fiction. I always have and always will. Retirement gives me the chance to pursue the active, creative side of the craft as opposed to the consumer role, although I have no plans to stop reading. My favorite genres, both for writing and reading, are mystery and suspense.
I grew up on a small grain farm in northern Illinois and have lived most of my life in rural America, except for a thirteen-year stint in Chicago. I have three sons, who are all grown now with children of their own.
And a list of some of my favorite things:
Cool, fall nights after scorching summer heat.
The sound of my sons' innocent, youthful laugher.
My bread with cheese!
My own fresh herbs.
My own fresh herbs in bread.
My own fresh herbs in bread with cheese! (Man, that was GOOD)
(If I didn't have Jasper, I'd never need to cook again)
My sister's visits here.
My visits to her there.
The thrill of finding an unexpected treasure in a junk shop.
The farm with Mom and Dad there.
Tippy, the silly, smart dog who ran from rabbits and raccoons.
The rub on my leg by one of the barn cats, thus starting my life-long fascination with those creatures.
The smell of laundry dried outdoors.
Hanging the laundry out as a child with a crisp wind blowing about me and the sheets snapping on the line before me.
A sheet draped over a table or clothes line to make a tent.
Lying in hammocks as a youth and staring at the clouds, and making shapes and designs of the white wispy things in my imagination.
Sunshine in winter.
A kind word.
A cup of tea.
Her orange chiffon cake with her never fail icing and topped with chopped pecans.
Her molded cranberry salad with pecans.
Her home-made chicken and noodles.
Dad's dish of cabbage cooked with sausage and tomatoes.
His salt pickles made in a crock in the basement.
His chicken grilled over charcoal.
Collecting butternuts in the woods behind the farmhouse. . . and eating the nutmeats later.
A jack-in-the-pulpit found on a spring walk.
Roasting marshmallows and hot dogs over an autumnal bonfire.
A hay ride.
A lighted Christmas tree in a dark room.
Santa Claus coming down the chimney.
The memory of my children's faces on Christmas mornings.