Sonny and I were married in 1955, back in the days when most homes didn’t have a television set, automatic washer and dryer, microwave, or “Already approved” credit cards in the mail box every day.
Our entertainment was derived from listening to the radio or Hi-fi, and from reading “Burma Shave” messages along the roadside. So our lives wouldn’t be dull, we had six children – five by the time the oldest was six years of age. We have been blessed with three sons, three daughters, three sons-in-law, three daughters-in-law, twelve grandchildren and a great-grandson. Sonny and I live in a small town on the outskirts of Bangor, Maine.
With a background like this, I felt it was my duty to write of my experiences as a housewife and mom. (Most people over fifty write a book anyway, don’t they?) I really started writing so I’d have an excuse not to do housework or cook. It didn’t work. Though it wasn’t easy stirring macaroni with one hand, while typing with the other, I continued to write.
My dog, Dolly, is my only audience. No one else in my family takes my writing seriously. They all think I’m going through my second childhood, since I’m at the drawing board a lot. I told them not to worry till they see me taking crayons away from their kids.
For some reason, husbands and children don’t seem to think a retired woman is capable of more than sitting on the couch and watching “old movies” all day. (Okay, okay, but I don’t watch them all day.)