Truth is, I never did very well with the music. I made too many left turns. Much to my delight, Auntie didn’t seem to notice when I made those lefts although I am sure she was acutely aware of my demure detours as she always seemed to know my where-a-bouts. You see I did need a watchful eye, I was always exploring and wondering off. But Auntie knew who I was. She knew I was no musician. She knew I was a writer. She enjoyed my little stories and encouraged me to write them down. She knew Pap’s ‘room of books’ was where I belonged, at least more so than the music room across the wide vestibule with the long spiral staircase leading to the five bedrooms on the upper level. Definitely Pap’s library is responsible for the book bug biting me at an early age.
Now, Granny was another story. Go into her art studio and you were immediately turned into mince-meat. The only time she took pity on me was when I fell outside on the stone steps and cried. Her “Angel” oil painting got a tear painted to go with my ear running down my cheek. That painting hangs in a museum these days. The museum can keep the painting but the tear is mine!
Mountain View, California was a good place to grow up in. Back then is was smaller and so friendly. Last year I went back. It had changed. The old Victorian torn down. No barn. No wrap around porch. No glider swing on the porch. No Pap.
So let me take this opportunity to say thanks Pap for loving books so much and making that room a library – you never knew this but it was that room that made me want so much, in a literal literary sense. Are you looking down on me Pap? Do you see? Do you think I turned out alright? I hope so. I love you Pap.