My Grandmother, or Grams, as I affectionately called her, was the most influential person in my young life, in large part, because she read to me. She also is the one who inspired me to begin writing children's books. Some of my most cherished childhood memories revolve around story times. I recall the scent of Grams’ hand lotion, the warmth of her body, and the softness of her skin as I snuggled next to her on the couch with my favorite book in hand. I recall how she drew in a deep breath, which she exhaled as a throaty growl to mimic the voice of the Big Bad Wolf, and then swiftly raised her pitch to affect the girlish naiveté of Little Red Riding Hood. That particular scenario never failed to thrill me and elicit giggles.  Those memories having lingered well into my adulthood and still provoke a smile. Yet occasionally they incite tears. You see, Grams passed away fifteen years ago. I miss her, still. My Grams encouraged and nurtured my love of books and in that, as in so many other ways, she blessed my life immeasurably. An aspiring author herself, we spent hours over steaming cups of tea, going through her manuscripts, revising her stories and polishing them up for her publisher. She made reading and writing the best part of every day, and her influence made a life long impact upon me.