I grew up on the outskirts of town and many afternoons’ were spent lost in the pages of books. An avid reader from as long as I can remember, I devoured books. My mother also a reader encouraged us, never censoring any of the books we picked up. So, a love of the written word came early and young.
Her only exception to written words was a warning, she gave often. “Don’t ever put in writing, what you don’t want others to read.” I didn’t heed her words, particularly, as a teenager with love letters and diaries often getting me into trouble. Just as reading became second nature, so did writing. I filled journals with poems and essays, all in a secret place.
My secret place was the cow pasture behind our house. Nearly every day I climbed the fence and ran down the hill through a crowd of cattle to a stream. There under the trees, with the black-spotted cows looking on, I filled notebooks with writings. I found my voice.
I will be 58 years old this month, and for the first time ever I am putting on paper for all those who choose to read, my words. I write every day. Sometimes it’s an opinion, thought, or an essay. Other days I write short stories. I am working on my first novel and enjoy the mentorship of a wonderful writers group. I write because I love to write, and no longer have to hide down by a stream in a cow pasture.
Welcome to the Cow Pasture Chronicles.
One thought on “Cow Pasture Chronicles”
Wonderfully written and beautifully told. You expressed in few words many months of joy, suspense, and fun. Igniting memories for the reader is what a good writer does, so hear I sit taking a stroll down memory lane. Thanks for the memories