About Marc Talbert

And I'm also a runner, a gardener, a cook, a reader, a good listener, a teacher. And even though I'm 48 years old, I often feel like the 10-year-old Marc Talbert --

the boy who was too shy to make very many friends,

the boy who was too slow to play team sports because he thought too much about what he was supposed to do,

the boy who loved to read even though he read very slowly (sounding out everything in his head -- I still do),

the boy who loved to write even though he couldn't (and can't) spell to save his life,

the boy who loved his own dreamy company and has finally made a career of daydreaming.

"Marc Talbert is the only Talbert with hair on his chest. He taught me not to kill bugs and to find meaning in all living things. He was nine years old when I was born and has been a great brother." -- Cynthia Talbert

Just the Facts Please!

"To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born (as I have been informed and believe). . ."
-- DAVID COPPERFIELD, by Charles Dickens

"If you really want to hear about it, the first thing Á you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap . . ."
-- THE CATCHER IN THE RYE, by J.D. Salinger

I was born in Boulder, Colorado, the first child for my parents, on July 21, 1953. Even though I was born in Colorado, within a few months my parents and I moved to the university town of Ames, Iowa, which is where I mostly grew up.

Iowa was a good place to grow up -- safe and comfortable, with gentle people living among the gentle hills and rolling fields of corn. My childhood was happy. I never broke any bones and had only one spectacular crash on my bicycle (going down the steep street in front of our house when I was five).

In first grade we moved back to Colorado, this time to Littleton, where the most exciting thing that happened was a small fire in the school kitchen. We had to bring lunches for several weeks and for a long time the gymnasium smelled like tennis shoes too close to a campfire.

We were back in Iowa a couple of years later, in a new house at the northwest edge of town. There were chickens next door, and a horse named Peacock. I spent a lot of time hiking the woods in the nearby river bottoms and finding lost golf balls with friends of mine in the golf course a couple blocks away.

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