Didn't the people who made those license plates care about little girls named Ramona?

Ramona stepped back into her closet, slid the door shut, pressed an imaginary button, and when her imaginary elevator had made its imaginary descent, stepped out onto the real first floor and raced a real problem. Her mother and father were leaving for Parents' Night.

I have lovely memories of Los Angeles in the 1930s. I came down to live with my mother's cousin and they invited me to come and go to junior college for a year.

Neither the mouse nor the boy was the least bit surprised that each could understand the other. Two creatures who shared a love for motorcycles naturally spoke the same language.

I enjoy writing for third and fourth graders most of all.

My mother would read aloud to my father and me in the evening. She read mainly travel books.

What interests me is what children go through while growing up.