When a Dream Came True – Norman A. Rubin

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When a Dream Came True – Norman A. Rubin

Sweet tales that end ‘they lived happily after’ was the delight of Delilah, an Afro-American housekeeper, when she read bedtimes stories to her charges – David, a freckled faced boy of seven years and little Betty going on five years.

Mother and father didn’t know the last name of Delilah; not that she didn’t have a birth name and when asked she always said ‘Delilah’ and nothing more. Nor she didn’t know her birth date. Her wrinkled face showed signs of coming old age, but she had laughing eyes and a ready smile to her sweet lips. She was always dressed in a colored apron on her dark dress and a red polka dot bandana on the white of her hair. When she laughed it shook her plump body from the tip of her wee nose to her wiggling toes.

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The Bewitching Tale of Dorani – Norman A. Rubin

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It was two o’clock Friday afternoon at the beginning of early spring when fourteen children between the ages of seven to ten gathered on the green lawn next to the library. The weather was perfect according to Miss Larsen, the volunteer story teller. She also sat on the green with the children seated in a half circle in front of her.

Miss Larsen, as she was called, was a widow on a pension going on sixty odd years. She was a slim person, medium height; her clothing was plain cut befitting her status. The white of her hair above a pleasant face with laughing blue eyes spoke of love for the children. Her voice was mellow and pleasant to hear, but there was a bit of severity to command attention.
At the right moment Miss Larsen clapped her hands for attention and spoke in her manner speech, “Today I will read the story of Dorani, the daughter of a perfume and spice merchant.

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Creating and storing ideas

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Born in 1952 at the Isle of Ely hospital, I moved a great deal with my parents until I was nine and sent to boarding school to provide some hopeful stability to my education although it was initially delayed by chorea and rheumataic fever when I was nine. I used to write stories when was young, probably inherited from my Uncle Raymond, P.R.S Hunt, my mother’s brother who also wrote short stories and articles on horticulture. That part did not quite rub off I hasten to add but he contributed to Amateur Gardening and The Lady to name but two as well as writing countless books on gardening, his second wife provided the illustrations. While we were in Portugal, my mother was going to do the research on a book for him but sadly he died from his one and only kidney which was failing as he lost the other, performing a gallant act when he was young, saving a girl whose bike breaks had failed and in danger of colliding with a heavy vehicle. He steered her out of the way but landed on the pavement, suffering irreparable damage to one of his kidney.

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