like paste and glitter, scissors and odd scraps of this and that. I painted by numbers, made jewelry from kits, wove and sold potholders, cut out paper dolls, and "designed" and sewed Barbie clothes with my grandmother. I made up jump rope rhymes and wrote stories and poems. I was never still, as my grandmother often said.

My older brother and I rode our bikes on dirt paths by the creek, and I walked with my friends to the A&P for bubble gum and bags of rock candy. With growing up comes the not-so-fond-of memories: getting bitten by a dog, falling in the creek on the way to school, getting punched in the stomach by a bully (my brother punched her back,) & not having a fake stretchy diamond bracelet or being voted the prettiest in the class like Sandra.

Our backyard fence backed up to the Indianapolis 500. We sold donuts and lemonade to the fans, and watched the race from our roof, it was that close. During the month of May, it was always so loud around our neighborhood, with the engines roaring—it's still a clear and fond memory.

During these years and the years to come, I realized that my older brother's world revolved around books. Revolved, I tell you. Always a book under his arm, a few on his bed, a stack heaped on the floor.