I stay up late at night and, as a consequence, sleep late. This morning my hubby arose at his usual teeth-gritting 6 a.m. and by 7:30 had left to go to town. Bobbi, our cat and I curled up and settled in to go back to sleep for a while. Just as I began to drift off, I heard a loud knock on the door.
You have to know that we live out in the boonies, and very few people wander through by accident, so it must be important. Still in my flannel nightgown, I arose to peek out the window. Bobbi took off for a hidey hole, as she doesn't care for visitors.
A large double cab pickup sat in the drive, engine running and a woman in the passenger seat. So I stumbled downstairs in time to see a tall, white haired gentleman on his way back to the truck. I opened the door and he turned and smiled.
"I'm looking for Velda Brotherton who wrote that book about the Boston Mountains," he said. He gave me his name, one I immediately recognized, and headed back toward me. "You used to teach my girl piano many years ago," he added.
"Yes, I remember. That's me," I replied. "Come on in."
He opined that his wife would probably like to come in too, so I asked them into a living room slightly messy from a departing husband who never puts anything away once he's dragged it out.
So, this morning at 8 o'clock, dressed in my flannel gown and groggy from lack of sleep, I signed a book for this nice couple, wished them a good morning, I hope you'll like the book, and shuffled off to get a cup of tea. Awake now, I knew I'd never go back to sleep.
So, that's what it's like to have written a regional nonfiction book about our Ozarks when you live where nearly everyone knows who you are and where you are. Despite my loss of sleep, I much prefer such an occurrence to living where no one knows or cares who I am or how I am.
I've been visited before by fans bringing flowers or books to sign, but this one will stand out in my memory for quite a spell.
You have to know that we live out in the boonies, and very few people wander through by accident, so it must be important. Still in my flannel nightgown, I arose to peek out the window. Bobbi took off for a hidey hole, as she doesn't care for visitors.
A large double cab pickup sat in the drive, engine running and a woman in the passenger seat. So I stumbled downstairs in time to see a tall, white haired gentleman on his way back to the truck. I opened the door and he turned and smiled.
"I'm looking for Velda Brotherton who wrote that book about the Boston Mountains," he said. He gave me his name, one I immediately recognized, and headed back toward me. "You used to teach my girl piano many years ago," he added.
"Yes, I remember. That's me," I replied. "Come on in."
He opined that his wife would probably like to come in too, so I asked them into a living room slightly messy from a departing husband who never puts anything away once he's dragged it out.
So, this morning at 8 o'clock, dressed in my flannel gown and groggy from lack of sleep, I signed a book for this nice couple, wished them a good morning, I hope you'll like the book, and shuffled off to get a cup of tea. Awake now, I knew I'd never go back to sleep.
So, that's what it's like to have written a regional nonfiction book about our Ozarks when you live where nearly everyone knows who you are and where you are. Despite my loss of sleep, I much prefer such an occurrence to living where no one knows or cares who I am or how I am.
I've been visited before by fans bringing flowers or books to sign, but this one will stand out in my memory for quite a spell.