![]() ![]() My grandfather, an invalid, was a huge fan of the writers Frank Slaughter, Frank Yerby, and Zane Grey. When life around me was dull or incomprehensible, there was always a book, another place and time to wander in, adventures someone else had that I could share. But books fed my soul and my mind and my heart. “Karleen, get your head out of that book.” If I heard it once, I heard it a million times. And I read, read when I was sad, read when I was glad, read when I didn’t understand my friends, read when I didn’t fit in. My father was a merchant marine, and we settled near the Port of Houston. I was the aftermath of a world war, the nation moving from its rural roots to the cities, and the GI Bill. They were as real to me as the life around me, a lower-middle-class one in a small oil refinery town in Texas. My childhood was filled with glorious books: Little Women, Lad: A Dog, Black Beauty, Little House on the Prairie, Caddie Woodlawn. ![]() Books have always been a lifeline for me a place I went to escape, to learn, to feel. ![]()
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