The forest seemed to be bursting with fantasy. These artifacts arose naturally out of the landscape like story itself. I was not the only one to wander in those woods, and I was always stumbling across weird assemblages of refuse in glades and on hidden paths: automobile chassis overgrown with sweetfern hideous curtains of unspooled cassette-tape hanging across ravines a window leaning on an old, burnt washing-machine festooned with yarn.
I spent my childhood playing in the forest, naming the streams and the valleys formed by quarries. My town was one of the first to oppose the British during the Revolution. “I grew up in a small town surrounded by apple orchards and woods that had grown up where fields once stood. I loved my childhood, and I write for children so that I can recall it. Anderson writes: “People write for children for two reasons: Either they have children, or they are children.
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