Walking hand in hand that warm June night in 1950, my parents purchased tickets to  Disney's newest feature length animated film: Cinderella.   As they left the theater, my mother felt contractions and told my father, “The Stork is flying low” -- and they left immediately for the hospital.  I entered the world six hours later, with Bibbidy, Bobbidy, Boo still sounding in my ears. 

  I grew up believing in fairies, kindly fairy god mothers and happy endings.  I still do. 

  At an early age I told stories to entertain myself during waking hours, and to set the stage for wonderful dreams as I lay in bed at night.  My best friend, Darline, and I climbed trees and made believe we were in the crows nest of Captain Hook's dreadful pirate ship.  But not to worry, Wendy (Darline) and I (who played the part of Peter Pan) always proved victorious over Captain Hook and freed Michael, John and the Lost Boys.  

  Darline's aunt, who loved to produce plays for her young niece's and nephews, allowed their friends to participate as well.  I've played the parts of fairies and common folk, princesses and paupers in her wonderful plays.

  Chores at home provided wonderful opportunities for me to use my imagination.  As I watered plants or dusted, I took hours on the tasks, for my mother adorned her plants and nooks and crannies with the most delightful figurines.  Each fairy, elf or ceramic princess whispered wonderful tales to me which I played out in my mind as I dusted or watered.  After I'd finished my tasks, I'd slip outdoors with my stolen booty and play by the ditch or in the top of the trees.  There in secret I spoke my tales aloud and let the elves and fairies speak with their own voices.  Invariably, my mother discovered her figurines missing and made me return them to their silent prisons among the potted plants or shelves in our front room.

  One morning, when asked to sweep the kitchen, I'd not yet finished telling myself a story I'd started in my dreams.  Knowing that I'd be given another chore when I'd finished, I chose to sweep with a small paint brush rather than a broom.  Oh, how the tale unfolded as I swept the growing mound of crumbs and dust across the linoleum floor.  My mother busily tended to the other children and did not discover me until I'd been sweeping for over an hour.  She chided me, but I bore not the blame. After all, it was she who placed all the fanciful thoughts of fairies, would-be princesses and handsome princes in my mind the night before my entry into this world.

  Soon, I entered school.  Learning to read opened vistas of new tales, but I found that I liked my stories better.  Mine included brave princesses as well as handsome princes, and always ended with happily ever after.   Some of Grimm's fairy tales proved  far too grim for me.  I decided at a young age  that when I grew up, I would write stories for children – stories that entertained them as well as me.

  Life pressed on me as I grew older.  My moodiness concerned me, for at times I did not feel like writing or creating.  I chose a safer career, one that I could perform regardless of my moods.  I became a nurse, and rarely told stories anymore.

  However, after I married and bore children, the joy of telling stories returned.  At night I'd sing to my babies, rub their little feet, and tell them wonderful stories.  I loved bedtime, for I felt like a child again, nestled safely among the quilts as my mind envisioned tales of derring-do.  My children grew and begged me to put my stories on paper so they could pass the legacy on to their children. 

  Many years passed.  I still work as a nurse, but now I make time to dream and create again. The wonderful stories of my creative childhood dance on the pages of books.  At times, I still lay awake at night, for the heroes and heroines in my mind chase away sleep.  They beg me to give them life and allow them to fulfill the measure of their creation by living on in the minds of countless others. 

  May you enjoy the fruits of my imagination as much as I do – and my children and grandchildren. 

  To dream, and to see those dreams come true, is to truly live.