In rural Ohio, on a long road with cornfields, horses, a pine forest, and a secret cemetery, there was a house filled with books. The books lived in every room and lined the walls from floor to ceiling. On the top floor was a bedroom covered in flowers where a little girl read by flashlight or by moonlight everything she could. This little girl loved telling stories – she told them to her mother who wrote them down, and to her brother and sister who listened attentively, and around the campfire where her father would tell one back to her, as well. She told stories to her friends on the school bus. She thought about stories while cleaning, or cooking, or weeding the garden, or walking through the woods, or doing chores in the neighbors’ barns.

Eventually, little girl grew up. She moved away from the book-filled house, although she still loves stories.

I’m here to get out my thoughts on books, food, and culture.

If you prefer things in 140 characters or less, you can follow me at https://twitter.com/DoReMarieFaSo

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