About the Author

I did not learn to read at a remarkably early age. However, once I did learn to read independently in elementary school, my life changed in a way so immense and rewarding, that I cannot really remember what life felt like before I could read.

Now, many decades later, I am one of those obsessed people, who will read a bread wrapper or a toothpaste carton if there is no other print available to read.

At the age of ten, I would jump on my over-sized green and white bicycle and pedal two miles down residential streets and busy avenues to reach the nearest public library. My bike had a large metal basket in the front in which, if I balanced them carefully, I could load ten books, the maximum allowed to children at that time.

No treasure seeker ever felt more elated than I, as upon reaching home, I stacked the books carefully in my bedroom, chose one, and curled up on my bed; or hurried outside to lean against a small tree in the backyard, eager to be lost for an hour or two in the world of my book.

I guess it’s no wonder, then, that I ended up as a librarian for most of my nearly forty years of professional work. Although I have worked as a children’s librarian and a college librarian, most of my career was working in public libraries, primarily as a library director. I am a true believer in the value of libraries in a free society, particularly of public libraries, which have been called, very justly, “the people’s university”.

As far as writing my own books, I wrote a book about a wild stallion when I was ten years old. At that age, like many children, especially girls, I was passionate about horses, even though I had never ridden a horse and seen very few, other than in movies or on television. Ah, but I read about horses every chance I could, especially by the very talented author Marguerite Henry. In her books, gorgeously illustrated by Wesley Dennis, Ms. Henry brought a level of psychological insight and compassion regarding the lives of horses and the people who cared for them.

Unknowingly, I copied (I won’t say plagiarized), many of the themes of Margaret Henry’s books in my little book, especially her beautiful story entitled King of the Wind, about a young, mute Arab stable boy named Agba and an Arabian stallion whom he names Sham. Together they survive a shipwreck and arrive bedraggled and friendless in the England of the 18th century. Despite many hardships and suffering. Agba and Sham are finally recognized for their true quality, and Sham goes on to sire an outstanding line of thoroughbred race horses.

My book, written in my sprawling, left-handed writing in one of those bound, lined, black and white notebooks so ubiquitous in classrooms in the 1950’s, was entitled King of Them All. My story was about a wild mustang who could never be captured or mastered, no matter how many people tried. King was a wise, brave and powerful stallion, beloved by his herd for many years.

In order to make my book more interesting to my imaginary readers, I illustrated it myself with very awkward looking, stiff-legged, sway-backed horses standing around in a companionable manner, perhaps discussing the inexplicable cruelty of men who tried to capture them and take them from their families. In the interest of authenticity (although I didn’t consciously know of this word at the time), I tried to make their coats and fetlocks look shaggy and unkempt. For the finishing touch of reality, I drew flies buzzing around their heads and rumps. This might be considered a remarkable stroke of realism for a child my age, except for the fact that the flies I drew were so large compared to the horses, they looked like regulation size baseballs flying around them!

Well, needless to say, my first attempt at writing a book gave me some pleasure but certainly no recognition from the reading public. However, all through my school years I did enjoy writing assignments whenever they were given to us by our teachers. Of course, I didn’t admit my pleasure openly, not wanting to draw derisive gasps of disbelief from my fellow classmates!

I can’t say I was ever one of those wonderful, talented protegees who land on the New York Times Bestseller’s List with their first effort, and remain there pretty much for the rest of their lives. All through my life I have enjoyed writing in many formats, whether privately in journals or handwritten letters to friends; or self-published poetry chapbooks; or more formal attempts, such as poetry or essay contests for which I’ve occasionally won a prize or two. And one must never discount all the writing I have done “in my head”, on long walks on the country roads where I live, or in the shower, or just before falling asleep after a long day.

In fact, some of my best ideas have resulted from “in my head” writing, including the idea for my first published book “How to Apologize to a Cat”. I had been writing, primarily in online publications for more than five years, when it occurred to me that I had enough written material to bring together a book on a specific topic dear to my heart—cats.

I have lived with quite a few cats over the years (remember, one never owns a cat) and have come to appreciate them in many ways more than any other animal, including those much-adored horses of my childhood reading. Cats are either lauded or loathed for their independent spirit, cool appraising stares, and unwillingness to follow orders. These are all characteristics I love about cats and have written about in poetry and prose.

But cats are not my only source of inspiration when I sit down to write online, on paper, or in my head. I am fortunate to live in a small, gray cottage on an acre of land at the edge of a Reservoir woodland. From this quiet place I can listen to birds, watch dragonflies and fireflies, feed the neighbors chickens, tend my tangled little garden, view the phases of the moon, and hear coyotes howling and owls calling on winter nights.

And write.

And read.

And give thanks for my life and the chance to share some of my thoughts and observations about cats, books, birds, childhood, and the natural world.