I was born on October 4th in the city of Chicago. Isn't that how most people begin their biographies? I don't know if it was a cold and rainy day, or if the sun was competing for the brilliance of myself on that day, red hair and all, but that is where and when I began. Well, technically I guess I began nine months before that, but I have no information on those days.
Eighteen months prior to my birth, my parents had had another child, a boy. My big brother Hank was my constant companion and adversary all through our growing up years. We were in grammar school together (St. Jerome's School in Rogers Park) and then went on to our individually separate high schools - his for boys (St. George in Evanston); mine for girls (St. Scholastica, Chicago). We became better friends after that, and the even further distance as family life took over solidified our friendship for all time.
I left Chicago, married, when I was just nineteen, never to return to live there again. Since those days I have had four children and lived in Missouri, Ohio, Oklahoma, Wisconsin, Iowa and Florida, and then back to Iowa again. I retired in 2016 and am now living in Kansas. My parents had died prior to the millennium, so my generation and I are now at the front of the line.
I began writing when I was in grammar school. I loved any assignment that asked for putting pen to paper and creating a story. In sixth grade, I wrote a story about two little devils, Jilly and Jolly, and read it out loud to my parents who laughed the whole time - just the reaction I was hoping for. Over the years of ups and downs (called "life") I wrote constantly. I didn't write a journal exactly, but I put all of my pain and joy down on paper whenever they occurred. Writing was my drug.
In 1996, I was able to have a story about my dad, "Gone Visiting" published in the small booklet that was known as Dogwood Tales. Somewhere around that time, I had another story of dad, "The Garden," read on the radio in Rejection Slip Theater, which my oldest daughter and I recorded. She was visiting and we had to get up at two a.m., when the program was on, and sat and listened to several other stories before mine was finally read. They did a beautiful job and really put heart into the piece. I was very proud of that, even though I doubted anyone else besides Patty and I actually heard it.
Eighteen months prior to my birth, my parents had had another child, a boy. My big brother Hank was my constant companion and adversary all through our growing up years. We were in grammar school together (St. Jerome's School in Rogers Park) and then went on to our individually separate high schools - his for boys (St. George in Evanston); mine for girls (St. Scholastica, Chicago). We became better friends after that, and the even further distance as family life took over solidified our friendship for all time.
I left Chicago, married, when I was just nineteen, never to return to live there again. Since those days I have had four children and lived in Missouri, Ohio, Oklahoma, Wisconsin, Iowa and Florida, and then back to Iowa again. I retired in 2016 and am now living in Kansas. My parents had died prior to the millennium, so my generation and I are now at the front of the line.
I began writing when I was in grammar school. I loved any assignment that asked for putting pen to paper and creating a story. In sixth grade, I wrote a story about two little devils, Jilly and Jolly, and read it out loud to my parents who laughed the whole time - just the reaction I was hoping for. Over the years of ups and downs (called "life") I wrote constantly. I didn't write a journal exactly, but I put all of my pain and joy down on paper whenever they occurred. Writing was my drug.
In 1996, I was able to have a story about my dad, "Gone Visiting" published in the small booklet that was known as Dogwood Tales. Somewhere around that time, I had another story of dad, "The Garden," read on the radio in Rejection Slip Theater, which my oldest daughter and I recorded. She was visiting and we had to get up at two a.m., when the program was on, and sat and listened to several other stories before mine was finally read. They did a beautiful job and really put heart into the piece. I was very proud of that, even though I doubted anyone else besides Patty and I actually heard it.