Abstract
My name is Lee Mets (honest), and this is my book I’m part of the writing club, which is fantastic, since what I want to be most is a writer. My mother says that girls don’t grow up to be writers, they can only be nurses or teachers. But it’s the 1960s, not the 50s or 40s, and I think she may be wrong. Mrs. Gowdy, who is my writing teacher, says that I have a gift. I’m going to use it to tell you the story of my summer. It was a summer that was both wonderful and terribly sad. The sad part is still painful for me to write about, but I will because that’s what writers do.