The shadows played on the old windmill, fallen a long time ago. A new windmill was now pumping the water, but the little child didn’t find it as friendly as the old one. The new one had blades of metal; the old one’s blades were made of wood. Every day after school, she would sit in the shadow of the wooden blades and imagine. She day-dreamt of being at the beach, watching sailboats go by and seagulls dive for fish. She served tea to a party of four of her best dressed dolls at a thoroughly-planned picnic. A sun-umbrella, a tree, a house by the lake, right there in the back yard of her grandfather’s farm. The fallen windmill and its wooden blades surrounded by playful shadows and distant destinies are some of the recollections she is most fond of. She dedicated all her books to her grandfather, who let her dream and kept the fallen windmill in his land, untouched, a symbol of his granddaughter’s life of travelling, writing and imagining.