Billy Walked Down The Road

Writing Is Hard Work!

One Summer morning, a long time ago, my sister, Betty, and her friend, Richard, decided to write a book. I think they were about nine or ten years old.

It took them a long time to gather the writing supplies they would need for their important undertaking; a fat pencil tablet, two stubby pencils honed to a fine point with Mama’s sharpest paring knife, a huge eraser with so many initials inked all over it, you couldn’t tell that it used to be pink, two bottles of home-made root beer, and some delicious looking chunks of cheddar cheese, just in case they got too engrossed in their writing to stop for lunch.

After stopping to inform my younger sister, Carol, and me, that we were not to bother them for anything,they threw a ratty old Indian blanket over the top and carried the box out under the apple tree. They were going to write a book and must have absolute quiet and privacy to accomplish such a marvelous thing.

Betty and Richard didn’t come back in for lunch. Carol and I peeked out the window at least a hundred times to watch them scribbling away with their stubby pencils, stopping frequently to erase, and then scribbling again. Their faces reflected the turmoil they were experiencing in getting their book down on paper.

We were excited for them and could hardly wait until they allowed us to read the story,(Actually, neither Carol nor I could read yet, but we knew Mama would read it to us.) Our sister, the author! We were already basking in her reflected glory.

It must have been about 2:30 in the afternoon when Betty and Richard came back to the house. They carefully placed the box with their writing supplies on the dining room table, and went into the kitchen for something to eat.