"I am the daughter of parents who lived through the depression. When the Lindbergh baby was kidnapped, my mother put a jar of marbles on my window ledge as a home-made alarm to frighten any potential intruder. I grew up on Grimm's Fairy Tales and lived through the blackouts of World War 11, when I hid beneath the bed, certain the airplanes overhead were those of the enemy. 

I daydreamed over Billy Eckstine records and the first Broadway Show I attended was South Pacific. My female singing idol was Judy Garland, whom I cheered at the Palace.

College money was not available, so I registered for night courses and worked in the complaint department of a large city newspaper, waiting for someone to discover my talents. Throughout the forthcoming years, I would call myself a writer, a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a cancer survivor, and a widow.

Now I am 62 years old. For all those who run after rainbows, play marbles in the dirt, and understand the magic of a toy room, I share these moments of growth, of change, of risk, of exhileration. If I do not grow up this year, perhaps I shall the next. Some things must not be rushed." .........