[Phonoho]

My mother is an unpublished writer. Mostly a blend of sci-fi and romance. Remember Doc Savage? She still has manuscripts stored away somewhere, which I need to make copies of. She used to read outloud to me, my brother and sisters, on long summer days when it was too hot to play outside. Even my treehouse, high up in the lush canopy of a huge Sweetgum, was no comfort from the blistering Texas heat. I can still recall the sound of her tan, portable Royal typewriter, clacking away while I was off in the kitchen making one of my famous Dagwood sandwiches and stealing her tea. Whenever she was reading or typing we dared not make a sound, in fear of interupting her method and spoiling the moment. I withhold comment out of respect for your Craft.