And there were my favorite writers like Thomas Wolfe, Sherwood Anderson, the Brontes, and our home-town hero, Samuel Hopkins Adams. (I'd pedal past his big house on Owasco Lake, just to see where a real writer lived!) But in my heart, I know who was responsible for this ambition of mine to become a writer: it was my lifelong abettor ... my ... mother.
"One of the most vivid memories of my childhood is of my mother making a phone call. First, she'd tell me to go out and play. I'd pretend to do that, letting the back door slam, hiding right around the corner of the living room, in the hall. She'd have her pack of Kools and the ashtray on the desk, as she gave the number of one of her girlfriends to the operator.... My Mother would begin nearly every conversation the same way: 'Wait till you hear this!'
"Even today, when I'm finished with a book and sifting through ideas for a new one, I ask myself: Is the idea a 'wait till you hear this"'"1
On Saturday nights in summer mother and daughter would drive downtown together and park in different spots, observing their neighbors and collecting gossip.
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