Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Where does our love for stories begin? Who yields to us the possibilities? Of what is an author made—or a dreamer? It started for me, way back then, with parents who loved me, and who loved one another. This photograph is taken from a scrapbook that my mother began for my father in the early 1960s. It was his Christmas present. My parents were only just beginning to build their lives, but my mother understood that it was important both to live well—alivedly, happily, with music, with puppets, with hula hoops and fanciful cakes—and to remember how that living had gotten done. She captioned the photos she collected for my father, pasted them onto black paper, and in her Christmas note to him wrote that, “It’s not very evident at times, but I did restrain myself from being too corny.”
Please join us at the Radnor Memorial Library, 114 West Wayne Avenue, Wayne, PA, for a talk about life, my city, and Dangerous Neighbors.Tonight I’m seeking patterns and meaning in the lyric of my own life. I’m questing after answers: Where does our love for stories begin, and how do we love those stories back?