I wasn’t as nervous about meeting him as I am about other authors (I admit, I was terrified of meeting Jeff Davis until I got to the retreat and was immediately warmed in his yoga-teacher presence). Mainly because this guy knew I wasn’t from Atlanta. He wouldn’t expect me to be fashionable or city-slick. I knew that I could be my silly self around Scott Russell Sanders, and he’d get it. He’d be okay with it.
I was right.
All in all, it was a great evening.
I told him that my aunts and cousins remember him from cub scouts. I corrected the one innaccuracy of all of his notes on Wayland and the surrounding area (Fay Given’s cabin didn’t crumble, it was built into my aunt Jane’s kitchen, a whole house surged up around it a little farther down the road than the area where he walked in the essay on Wayland in “Staying Put”.)
Oh, and he signed my book. “To Alicia, who knows the real Wayland…”