I suppose I

am going to break down and tell you a story today that

needs telling. It pains me to do so, because it requires

that I confess to judging my fellow man and woman quite

inappropriately.

But there

is a history here.

Remember, I

was the oldest daughter of seven kids born to very

religious parents. No shorts or pants were worn by the

females in our family. No playing cards were ever allowed

in the house. Attending a dance was unheard of, and even

seeing a movie was out of the question when I was growing

up.

There was

church and church and church, and for the most part, the

fun and fellowship at church was enough.

Until my

sister - you guessed it, Lynda - discovered

True Confessions. Actually, I have never doubted until

this very moment the story she told about how the

magazines found their way into our bedroom, but here I

am, 40 years later, wondering.

It takes me

a while sometimes, but usually I get there.

At any

rate, we had this top shelf in our closet. It was a

hidden shelf with a sliding door type opening that Lynda

said she "discovered" one day. And on that

shelf were the True Confession magazines. Whoever lived

there before us must have left them, she said.

And so we

began to read.

At night

with flashlights, we read. When we were brave, one would

stand watch at the door while the other read. We were

rebellious delinquents. To this day, I feel guilty when I

see a magazine of that variety.

And so that

may be why I had never read a romance novel until last

week. I had assumed that all drug store romance novels

were trash. Why? I don't know. Maybe it's the covers they

put on some of them. I know only that it was a stupid

assumption.

When I was

at the book sellers convention I attended earlier this

month, making my rounds looking for new books and authors

that I thought would make an interesting interview, I

spotted this ever so diminutive, almost fragile looking

lady in the back corner of the huge showroom. She was

seated among a distributor's very large exhibit, signing

books. No one was standing near waiting for the book she

was signing.

I thought

to myself that she must be a first time author who was

soon to be crushed that the crowds were not finding their

way to her far less than perfect location in that corner.

I walked

over and squatted down before her to inquire about her

writing. Immediately I was drawn to this person. I stayed

in that crouched position long enough for every leg

muscle to threaten me with a cramp before I finally stood

again. We didn't really talk about her book, just her. I

didn't want to move on, but I had work to do.

As I

started to leave, a young woman at the exhibit handed me

an invitation to "tea" that afternoon.

"Come have tea with Fern Michaels from 3 to 4:30

p.m." is what it said.

"My,

they are going all out for this first time author,"

I thought, as I tucked the invitation in my bag.

As the day

wore on, the thought of getting off my feet and having a

nice cup of tea became more and more inviting. So did the

prospect of knowing a little more about this new writer I

had discovered.

Nothing

could have prepared me for what was waiting. At 4 p.m. (I

did not consider myself late since I think it is proper

to come and go from such a tea) I walked into a room

unlike anything I could have imagined. To the right of

the table laden with tea and champagne and all kinds of

goodies was another table filled with books. And they

were romances.

I swallowed

hard. I remember the guilt. I imagined the flashlight

under the covers. This was Lynda's domain, not mine. Or

so I thought.

In a matter

of minutes I was again deeply engrossed in conversation

with this delightful woman who had drawn me to her that

morning. She signed three of her novels and made them a

gift to me. She was at the convention to promote her 67th

book.

Had I

misjudged this elegant little keg of literary dynamite,

or what? How was I to know how many times her books had

been on the New York Times bestseller list? I read

nonfiction, inspirational books, an occasional historical

novel, newspapers, lots of magazines and my bible.

What was I

to do?

I had to

read one. After all, they were a gift. Besides, no one

had to know I was stooping to such levels.

What a

foolish, arrogant and judgmental person I must be. I

cannot begin to tell you how much I enjoyed "Sara's

Song," the first of the three little books. I have

not had to time to read the others yet, but I will, and I

will look for more work by Fern Michaels and others of

her genre.

I preach

all the time that we should never judge a book by its

cover, and yet I do it. Often. And I'll bet you do, too.

We

shouldn't.