I’ve been blessed with a trio of supportive influences, all gone but never forgotten: my mom, my third grade teacher, and my high school English teacher, Mr. Beecham.

I’ve written about my mother as social shaper – including the genetic components she imbued – many times and my English teacher’s influence is somewhat tainted by the fact that he invited me to his small apartment on the edge of town. My mom highly disapproved of this move, but he approved of my writing, so he makes my list.

Further reminiscence reminds me that my maternal grandparents approved of my prodigious reading and writing – even when I discovered the book Gone With the Wind on their expansive bookshelves and ignored them for the week of my summer stay. Here’s the ancient pencil sharpener that my grandpa ceded to me, still in use:

In this blog post I’ll cite my third grade teacher, who read The Boxcar Children, to her classroom kids daily. A single chapter after lunch. No current curriculum would squander a half-hour in this manner.

Her reading ignited my imagination and showed me the way to story-telling.

I have the book on my shelf, plucked from my mother’s possessions when she passed away. It’s a treasure without parallel. So are the books I’ve written, extracted from my imagination as inspired by a trifecta of supporters who’ve had my back in my past.