The other night, we watched You've Got Mail (love that movie) and it prompted me to get on Amazon and make a list of books that I want to read to the baby. Looking through all of my old favorites was a surprisingly exciting and nostalgic experience. I distinctly remember all of the wonderful worlds created by the words and pictures contained in these books and how I would escape to them late at night after my mom had gone to bed. The dreamy plots of Chris van Allsberg were as good as a day of uncovering treasures in your Grandma's attic, full of mysterious legends and starry illustrations. The dark humor of Shel Silverstein, the fabulously French adventures of Madeline and Roald Dahl, who needs no explanation. Looking through all of my oldest and dearest haunts, I remembered going to brunch on Sunday morning after an evening of reading Dahl's The Witches and being convinced that the women at the next table were wearing hats to cover their baldness, gloves to conceal their claws and square tipped shoes to hide their lack of toes because, of course, they were witches. Looking back now I realize that all these books are partially to blame for the fantasy world in which I now and have always resided. This world is the root of my desire to make everything real as beautiful as it is in my mind. And so I leave you with rooms full of whimsy and wonder. Rooms that could spark imagination in even the grandest of dullards.