The landscapes of our childhoods bury themselves deep in our bones. Ohio remains that place for me. Though I haven’t lived there for more than 35 years, the places and people who inhabited my world while I was young are still fixed firmly in my heart—catching fireflies at dusk, the cool night grass tickling my feet, the silky whispers of tall cornstalks, the endless sky close enough to touch—church basements overflowing with food, country schools, county fairs, barns begging to be explored—family at the heart of it all. I close my eyes and am whisked away to the cherry tree in my grandmother’s backyard or next to my grandfather cracking black walnuts on the back porch. I am transported to the pond where I fed ducks with my dad or to the stoop at night, where I hooked pinkie fingers with my mother, wishing on the first star.

We don’t forget where we come from.

My journey toward becoming a storyteller began with the bookmobile that traveled once a week to my rural elementary school—a converted van—transformed into a moving library—its insides lined with shelves that were filled with books. I waited impatiently every week for its arrival—having already read the two or three books allowed—often in one sitting— so that I could check out more. In this way, I discovered some of my favorite books: Harriet the Spy, The Velvet Room, The Borrowers, Tom’s Midnight Garden.

All those words begged to be said aloud. I loved to roll syllables in my mouth, just to feel the taste of them. I read to my mother while she made dinner, to my brothers when I could get them to sit still, or to my classmates at lunchtime. I read under the covers at night, on the school bus, and not-so wisely, while my 3rd-grade teacher taught multiplication tables.

Despite my ongoing trouble with the times-tables, reading has taken me everywhere I’ve wanted to go. My life-long habit of always carrying a book continues to allow me to escape far and wide when the need arises.

When I had my children, I became reacquainted with the enchanting characters I'd loved myself as a child, and the oh-so-dear places in books I'd nearly forgotten. I discovered there were stories lodged in my own heart, waiting to find a home.

RISING ABOVE SHEPHERDSVILLE, is the result, and very much a reflection of the people and places I have loved.

These days I live in Minneapolis, Minnesota, with my husband and two children, and a rascally dog. When I’m not writing, I’m teaching writing, or advocating for literacy by volunteering in community schools. I have been known to occasionally serve a cherry pie.