LIFE
When I was a kid about this age, we lived with my grandma, a poet, landscape artist and storyteller. From her I learned about the Fairie Queen, Jean Valjean, the Count of Monte Cristo, Prince Hamlet, Othello, Moses and Noah, all of whom made Dick, Jane and Spot quite boring.
People started dying. My dad, Grandma, uncles and aunts. My mom caught spinal meningitis and landed in an isolation ward for months. That school year, I lived alone, until Eric moved in. This is Eric, son of a crashed aviator and a paranoid jazz singer. He was the wisest and best friend, until a Volkswagen ran off a cliff in the mountains.
If anyone can tell me who she is -- date it around 1962 -- let me know.
In this one, I'm a starving rock and blues musician, not long before I realized that my musical gift was puny, and I turned to what grandma had programmed me to do -- tell stories.
Thirteen novels (five of them published so far), a hundred stories and articles, seven homes in three countries and three states, three superb kids later, here I am. "Pretty cute," says Pam, and blesses me with one of her amazing kisses.
About those amazing kids:
Darcy's a mentor teacher, husband of Darren, and mom of Baby Nick, who at two years can throw a ball father and more accurately than most major league ballplayers can.
Her little brother Cody, a mild mannered high school English teacher by day, gets his exercise as an ultimate fighter and moonlights as a night club bouncer.
And Zoë, she plays and grows and talks all the while.
Return in a week or so to see new photos.