Carol Gregson listens patiently to her #3 son, Kent, while she tries to wash asparagus for dinner on April 20.
Photo by Andy Flynn.
continued “Be prepared to enjoy Carol Gregson’s latest memoir. With this book, she invites me into her living room, tells me the story of her life, and makes me feel at home with her honesty, charm and wit. She makes me laugh; that’s what I love most about Carol. She’s an expert storyteller and left me wanting more, much more. ”
Carol liked my first blurb enough to invite me to dinner for stroganoff, which I gladly accepted. And, as we sat in the living room after dinner staring at the fireplace where the front door used to be, she inscribed my book and referenced my rewrite for the back cover.
“Loved your blurb!” she wrote on the title page. “Thanks.”
When reviewing “Wet Socks,” I never saw Carol’s illustrations, as the chapters were each sent as Microsoft Word documents, so now I’m enjoying all the artwork and can see why she was a well-loved and well-respected art teacher.
I love the fact that she refers to her children by number. It’s starting to get too confusing, though, with all the grandchildren and great-grandchildren. I think they’d better come up with a new system. Sounds like a good time for a family meeting.
I’m looking forward to reading “Wet Socks” again now that I can feel the pages in my hands. Aside from the recipes and stories about her family, I was fascinated to follow Carol back to her early days — what she calls “Ancient History” — and learn about her Scandahoovian ancestors from Nebraska like Grandpa Paul Bunyan, her roots on the West Coast and her job in a Texas airplane factory during World War II. She eventually married a feller from Long Island and moved to the Adirondacks, where they ran a campground and raised a family of seven children.
“Anyone who does not consider motherhood a career has not raised children,” Carol writes in the “Resume” essay.
Now Carol keeps busy with her group of spinners, telling stories to crowds, and finding ways to move the boxes of books out of her dining room and into the hands of eager readers.
“I’m not looking for work anymore,” she writes. “I’m peddling books!”
The price is reasonable: $19.25. And it was a good year, too.