The most meaningful thing that was handed down to me by my mother was the love of storytelling. As a small child I would sit around the kitchen table with my parents, grandparents, uncles, and aunts, and listen to their many stories and tales of Italy or the "old country" as they used to call it. During mother’s childhood, in the “old country” poverty was a harsh reality. No one had a TV or radio and books were a luxury reserved for those who could afford them. Therefore, storytelling became a form of entertainment; a way to pass away the hours. Mother’s favorite place to listen to stories was in front of the fire place located in the kitchen which was also their only source of heat in the winter. As the adults took turns speaking, my mother and the other children listened. But when a mature adult theme story came along, the children would be sent off to bed. When I was a child, I too would be sent to bed when someone began to tell a story that was too racy for children’s ears. I wanted to hear what adults talked about. But, it was not meant to be. While in bed, my curiosity peaked. What were they hiding from me? What did adults talk about when children weren’t around? And so my imagination would take over. I’d create my version of what I thought they were talking about. Needless to say, when I got older I discovered that my version of their stories was much different than how I imagined. Nevertheless, my little bed was like the oven where bread rose; the incubator where eggs hatched. It was the place where as a child I first gave birth to the concept of writing stories.
