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.