As a child, I was a mix of independence and quiet fear; the oldest of seven kids. I loved being outdoors—climbing trees, exploring, and spending time with animals—but I also carried a cautious awareness of the world around me. I wasn’t reckless, but I was curious, always drawn to what might be just beyond reach. 

I was also a storyteller. I'd make up episodic tales of animals that lived on the moon to entertain my siblings on the long car rides to visit my grandparents each weekend. My grandmother used to say my overactive imagination would one day get me into trouble. She wasn’t entirely wrong. My mind was always busy, turning ordinary moments into something more—stories forming before I even knew what to do with them. 

Growing up in the 1950s, life centered around family and simple pleasures. There was freedom in those days—room to roam, to imagine, to climb a little higher and see a little farther. At the same time, that thread of caution stayed with me, a quiet balance to my curiosity. 

Looking back, I can see how those early years shaped me. The independence, the imagination, the love of the outdoors—and yes, even the fear—have all found their way into the stories I write today.