On the fifth day of October 1934, I was born into a working-class family in a little country village in North Cork, Ireland. I can vividly remember the hardships and great fear during the war years, but we as a family were never hungry or cold. During my school days, I was maybe a little above average in most subjects, but writing was my favorite subject. As I grew older, neighbors or friends would sometimes ask me to write something for some occasion or others, such as a poem or a funny song or something. As time went on, I began to write stories, poems, and songs for my own enjoyment. By then I was into driving heavy machinery, and writing was a form of relaxation. But the noise from the machinery had a great effect on my hearing. As a result, I am now almost deaf. However, time must go on, and now that I'm retired, I can spend more time at my writing.

My wife is a keen gardener, and I sat outside the front door one sunny day, admiring her beautiful array of flowers. My gaze fell on a lovely little willow tree, which was now in full bloom. I decided to write a little story (magical of course) about this wonderful little tree. Hence I have this story the Weeping Willow. I hope you will enjoy it. Happy reading, and as we say in Ireland, "Slainte."