My Grandfather wrote a few books for children.
His sister, my great aunt, illustrated them all.
I have two of them. As a child I was so proud of this.
I knew that it was special to have your name (and mine) in print.
And to be read by others. I only met him once when I was three.
He was a white man who lived in Africa for most of his life.
I was proud of this too. My link to a wild, exotic land, where my father met my dark eyed mother.