Happy Birthday!

The Poe Toaster has left his tribute. No notes this year, no unruly crowd. Just three roses and some cognac.

I come from a family of readers, and my father has a great love of narrative poetry. Dad wanted to name me Lenore. (Kelly Belly was bad enough on the playground. The only thing I can think of that rhymes with "Lenore" is "manure")

So today, on the anniversary of Mr Poe's birth, I am feeling nostalgic for my father's reading of The Tell-Tale Heart. I don't know what other kids' parents read to them, but mine were all about the classics. Dad's taste ran more to American lit, so he encouraged Poe (whom I adored), Crane, Cooper, and Hawthorne.

Words are a gift, and I am in awe of people who are able to paint pictures with their words. Grammar I can do; vocabulary is a snap; crafting paragraphs-- not so much. I can, however, appreciate the work of those who are gifted, even compelled to write. I can treasure their artwork time and again. In fact, I am headed over to Audible.com right now to pick out a little treasure for the car ride tonight. Jon will be so thrilled.