An Oregon writer a long way from the Bronx

I was a firecracker baby, born on the 4th of July. My earliest years were spent in the Bronx, in a one-bedroom apartment stuffed with three generations of family.

I fondly remember the small table and chair, just my size, that my Nana set up in the corner of the living room. She gave me paper and crayons and told me this was my special place. I spent many happy hours scribbling page after page. After I folded the paper together, I offered the "books" to my family. "Read," I would tell them. "Read."

Our apartment building was just off the Grand Concourse and not too far from Poe Park. This was where Edgar Allen Poe, Annabel Lee and her mother lived together in a doll-sized house. Their house had been preserved as a museum and was open to visitors. I loved going there, and I did go often with my Grandpa, who was very indulgent. We'd walk under the shade of the trees, we'd tour the house and then we'd go down the street where Cousin Abe owned a candy store. He always gave us free egg creams.

Out of these beginnings, grew the themes of my life as a teacher, a reader and a writer. Like my Grandpa, I'm a walker, a doting grandparent, a lover of good food. Born on Independence Day, I consider myself a patriot. I'm not a flag waver but I've voted in every election since I came of age and I make it a point to educate myself about issues and candidates, local and  national. I volunteer at the local food bank and for community activities like clean-up days and charity events. Perhaps my streak of independence is what motivated the move to Oregon, when my husband and I gave up our jobs and house in the city to live out in the country and to actively care for the land we live on.

And now, as an Oregon writer, I am offering real books to people, urging them to "Read. Read."