I am a New Englander. I was born here and, other than my two years in Africa, I have lived here my whole life. New Englanders are hardy souls. Winters are not for the timid. A nor’easter brings feet of snow. It blows against the window and piles high enough to obscure the view. My deck disappears. The outside door lights have tall snow on the tops of them. The dogs go out and slide the down o snow the middle of the back stairs. They use the same path to come up the stairs. When the snow is so high getting into the back yard would nee a plow, they go under the deck to finish their bathroom

Hot! Hot! Hot! It is already 83°. For some that is relief, but for us, it is too hot for July. It will stay hot the rest of the week and may hit 90° on Thursday. Idleness is the best way to spend the days, to do nothing but sit down, drink something icy and read.

I remember when I was eleven and made the vow to travel. Though I didn’t know anyone who traveled much out of New England, I knew I would. It wasn’t a hope but an expectation. Once afternoon I spent the day at Logan Airport just watching the planes. In those days the roof of the terminals was an observation spot. The planes were all props, and I remember how much the props spun. I’d watch the planes in the sky until they were too far away to see. I knew one day I would be on one of those planes looking out the window watching the land disappear. My first books were Golden Books. My mother read them to me. She’d point out everything in all the pictures and ask me what they were. Mostly they were animals, baby animals. Some animals wore clothes. Hats were big. I remember Chicken Little in a straw hat wearing a shawl with lace. The animals talked, regular conversations. My mother read me nursery rhymes. Humpty Dumpy was also wearing clothes. I remember his yolk on the sidewalk after his fall off the wall. It made perfect sense to me that all the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put him back together again. Jack and Jill fell down the hill. The baby in its cradle fell down after the bough broke. The snoring old man woke up and hit his head. Goosey Goosey Gander threw an old man down the stairs. The nursery rhymes were dark, but I really didn’t notice. It was the rhyming I loved, the sounds of the words. I learned new words like Jack’s crown was his head, a bough is a branch and a lady’s chamber is her bedroom.

I moved on to fairy tales. I wanted the goose Jack stole from the giant, the one that laid golden eggs. Like Hansel and Gretel, I’d push the witch into the over so she wouldn’t eat me. Rumplestiltskin is still a favorite. Disney cartoons had me reading Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty. I really loved the witch with her poison apples. She was scary and had all those warts.

My first real books were classics. My mother read us Robinson Crusoe. I imagined living alone on a deserted island. It piqued my sense of adventure. To see footprints in the sand would have been mysterious but amazing. The Bobbsey Twins were easy to read. They came from a rich family and traveled. They had hired help, Dinah and Sam. In the first books, they spoke in a dialect I had trouble reading. The twins solved mysteries. I loved the mysteries. I remember riding the school bus and reading Little Women, a Christmas present. My mother gave me the best Christmas presents. I read all the Little Women, Little Men stories. Books do that. They lead to more books. How wonderful that is.