My fondest childhood memory is snuggling up to my Grandma Lottie on her sofa as she read to me from my favorite book: Cinderella. This was a circa 1972 pop-up book, which completely blew my four-year-old mind. Cinderella’s carriage, her fairy godmother, and Prince Charming all sprang from the pages; I can still recall believing that the book was magical, that Cinderella was real. I would shut the book then open it again superfast, hoping to see what Cinderella was doing when she thought that no one was looking. Sitting next to my grandmother was where I felt most loved and safe. I’m convinced that it was Grandma Lottie who instilled in me my love of books and story. When she wasn’t reading to me or teaching me how to bake, she kept me entertained with tales of how she survived the Great Depression by taking in the rich folk’s laundry. My favorite tale was about the time when my uncle was three and he took a lollipop to bed with him. Later that evening when my grandmother checked in on him, a giant black rat was sitting on my uncle’s chest gnawing what was left of the candy-coated stick.
I still love fairy tales and a good story.
Current mood: Overwhelmed
What I’m listening to: The Bird and the Rifle by Lori McKenna