I was often told when I was growing up that I was too much of a dreamer. But how could I not be a person of dreams, I wondered. To me a dreamer was simply someone who believed in the possible. All around me I saw examples of the possible.
Spring came even though the cold wind of winter had seemingly killed warmth.
The pine trees shot straight up to the sky.
Dogwoods and redbuds ran riot in the woods where no one planted them.
Roses burst forth in great clusters of color.
Daddy planted a packet of seeds, and bushels of tomatoes popped out of the plants and turned startlingly red.
Dogs had litters of puppies, and I could play with them all morning.
People wrote words, books were printed, I could read them all afternoon, and whole worlds of the possible opened up to me.
Am I still a dreamer?
You better believe it!