Planting the Seeds of a Passion
It was eleven years ago this month that my grandmother, Jeanette, passed away. I had moved to Los Angeles five years earlier and didn't see her again until her funeral. I'd kept in touch over the phone, through the mail, sending holiday and birthday cards before her passing, but I had really lost her when I moved to Los Angeles. I didn't really have time to listen to her ramble on about my cousins, who were all at least a decade or more younger than me. And since most of my early years in Hollywood were spent struggling to pay the rent while juggling a fulltime job and graduate school, I didn't have the money for a visit either. Over time, Grandma became less and less of a presence in my life. But the greatest impression she has left on me, the fate-filled trait she bestowed upon me, was her passion for reading.
My grandma was a kindergarten teacher, a gardener and an avid reader. My most vivid memories are of her sitting in a big, comfy chair, a reading lamp over her shoulder and a book in her hands. She had a penchant for mysteries and the ability to block out every distraction as she delved deeper into the worlds between the pages of her books. My brother and I could be clanging and banging all around her with a game of pick-up-sticks or jacks or a raucous round of Chinese checkers, but as long as no one was in danger of losing a limb, she rarely looked up from her novels.
And she also instilled in me a passion for words. Starting with Peter Rabbit and Curious George, she encouraged me to read and wonder at a very early age. She bought me books on vinyl (yes vinyl!) such as Alice in Wonderland and Peter Pan and other stories of fantasy, which I would listen to with rapt attention and awe. Soon, I graduated to Nancy Drew and Judy Blume, and Grandma was always there with her library card to support my habit.
Over the years, my reading tastes evolved and matured, while Grandma continued to enjoy the likes of Agatha Chrisitie's murder mysteries and Sue Grafton's alphabet series, snuggled up in her cozy reading chair finding complete satisfaction in the unraveling of a puzzle. Though I didn't quite take to her love of mysteries, I feel I owe my love of the written word, at least in some part, due to her. She was quiet in her efforts to feed my passion, but when I look deep down, I know that if it weren't for her, I probably wouldn't be the reader and writer that I am today.
I didn't start writing my first novel until four years after her death, but I have a feeling Grandma would be pleased. And even though my novel might be a little too racy for her tastes, I think she would appreciate the world I spun with my words, the fantasy that unfolds for my imaginary characters and the fact that I know the difference between lay and lie. In my mind, I imagine her sitting beneath the warm glow of her reading lamp, the bright green and blue cover of HOLLYWOOD ENDING resting gently in her hands, a smile on her face.
Rest (and read) in Peace, Grandma.
Love,
Lucie
My grandma was a kindergarten teacher, a gardener and an avid reader. My most vivid memories are of her sitting in a big, comfy chair, a reading lamp over her shoulder and a book in her hands. She had a penchant for mysteries and the ability to block out every distraction as she delved deeper into the worlds between the pages of her books. My brother and I could be clanging and banging all around her with a game of pick-up-sticks or jacks or a raucous round of Chinese checkers, but as long as no one was in danger of losing a limb, she rarely looked up from her novels.
And she also instilled in me a passion for words. Starting with Peter Rabbit and Curious George, she encouraged me to read and wonder at a very early age. She bought me books on vinyl (yes vinyl!) such as Alice in Wonderland and Peter Pan and other stories of fantasy, which I would listen to with rapt attention and awe. Soon, I graduated to Nancy Drew and Judy Blume, and Grandma was always there with her library card to support my habit.
Over the years, my reading tastes evolved and matured, while Grandma continued to enjoy the likes of Agatha Chrisitie's murder mysteries and Sue Grafton's alphabet series, snuggled up in her cozy reading chair finding complete satisfaction in the unraveling of a puzzle. Though I didn't quite take to her love of mysteries, I feel I owe my love of the written word, at least in some part, due to her. She was quiet in her efforts to feed my passion, but when I look deep down, I know that if it weren't for her, I probably wouldn't be the reader and writer that I am today.
I didn't start writing my first novel until four years after her death, but I have a feeling Grandma would be pleased. And even though my novel might be a little too racy for her tastes, I think she would appreciate the world I spun with my words, the fantasy that unfolds for my imaginary characters and the fact that I know the difference between lay and lie. In my mind, I imagine her sitting beneath the warm glow of her reading lamp, the bright green and blue cover of HOLLYWOOD ENDING resting gently in her hands, a smile on her face.
Rest (and read) in Peace, Grandma.
Love,
Lucie
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