They say that dreams die hard, and I was a dreamer. Dreams took shape in my head as I learned to read and write. My older brother brought home and read aloud magical stories like O Henry's "The Ransom of Red Chief" and Dickens' "A Christmas Carol," stoking my desire to read and write even more. I became so enamoured by the idea of writing that I copied what I saw others do, filling page after page with loops and scribbles. I was writing! I was so excited that I wrote a "letter" to James, our mailman. I was madly in love with James, so of course, I had to let him know. While I was sorely disappointed to find my letter flung onto the porch floor, my grief was short-lived. I quickly got over James when I started the first grade and fell in love with Jimmy Bowman. He walked me to school every day, although my mother did interfere by putting a stop to his daily, "Good morning, dear," kisses. Mama could be a spoil sport. Miss Hedgecock was the best teacher ever for a budding writer. She kept a roomful of books, brought them by my house, and encouraged me in every way. She even managed to talk my parents into buying a set of the World Book encyclopedia, a Baby Boomer's version of Google. I ran to the encyclopedias to find information about any new thing I read or wondered about from adult conversations or TV shows. My writing obsession led to copying whole articles out of those World Books to make my own little books. I learned later the meaning of the word, "plagiarism," in a most painful way when we moved to a new town. Moving meant a season of loneliness, so reading and writing filled more of my time. Browsing the shelves was not allowed, and I was frustrated by the way books were doled out at my new school. A stack of grade-level books were piled onto each table. If you wanted a more challenging read, you were out of luck. I'd already read every book in my old school library, where common sense reigned, by the end of the second grade. The shelves of wonder were off-limits at my new school.And there were no public libraries close by. I moved on to poetry to describe the thoughts and pictures in my head, deprived of stimulating reading materials. That activity came to a screeching halt the day my third-grade teacher called me to her desk and thumped my papers emphatically. "Where did you find these?" she asked." Confused, I mumbled, "Find what?" Miss Adams thought I was being impertinent. "Find these poems," she went on. You must have copied them. Show me the books you copied them from. Now." I was mortified. After my weak protests fell on deaf ears, I slumped back into my desk, humiliated and angry at being so accused. My teacher thought I, a writer, was lying! I vowed never to be so accused again. Tolerating two more years at that school before we moved back to our old neighborhood, I read on. But I only wrote what was required of me. Never forgetting my last poem, I moved on, finishing school and college to become, of all things, a teacher. (Fear kept me from declaring the major I really wanted to pursue - journalism.) I vowed never to accuse a child of anything unless I had irrefutable evidence in hand. That poem, and my desire to write, nagged at me. I still pictured its image in my head. It was mine, and it was time to share it. But where does a fifty-something share a third-grade poem? Then it hit me - publish it on an Internet poetry site among thousands of others. No one would notice, but I'd feel vindicated! Someone noticed. Just a few someones, but it was enough. Ironically, one commenter wrote, "Somehow, it feels unfinished." So I picked up my pen again, tears falling onto my paper. These days, the words tumble out of my head into my laptop, a gift from precious friends. I'll never stop writing again. Words matter. Mine are unlikely to be prolific, but it's a wonderful, freeing outlet for joy and pain, humor and simple observations. Every word matters, at every age, especially the tender years. Parents and teachers, breathe life into the dreams of every child you encounter. So many feel squelched by the dailies of life. Let them dream. Who knows? You might find some familiar names in a bookstore near you, or in a blog like this one. Leaves are very pretty, I think, Orange, green, and sometimes pink! Sometimes rough, sometimes soft, You can see them from the hayloft! Then they all gently sway, Then they all fall away. - Jean Sanders, 1963 Article Source: http://EzineArticles.com/9358290