About This Blog

I wish my mom, my dad, my grandparents had kept journals. I love my almost-90-year-old dad and I’m very proud of him; I want to be like him, as I age. I love his stories, but he doesn’t tell enough of them. And I loved my mom’s stories, and her opinions, and chatting with her in the kitchen, until, 21 years ago, she died.

I wish I had their stories. I wish they’d kept journals. My dad lives on, my mom and grandad and granma and gram and Uncle Paul, and Uncle Buddy live on, but in memories. I wish I had more.

I miss the connection to my younger self that I might have had, had I kept a journal. This life that we lead, the emotions, the moments, seems so precious, but also fleeting. Growing up, falling in love, marrying, moving around, having children, raising them, watching them grow into adults, watching them have their own children. It goes by so fast.

And I confess I love writing. Period. The act of putting something into words that record it. A thought, an image, a moment. Describe it in words. I love that. I always have. Maybe even — although this is perhaps way too much to hope — a word of advice, or a thought that might help you get through a hard time, or a decision.

So this blog has mixed motivations. I’m sure I’m doing it for myself, but I’d like to think that I’m doing it as well for the five of you, my grown up children; and the five grandchildren I have so far and the sixth on the way, and those that haven’t started yet. I hope some day I’ll be able to pass on some of what I think, and feel, and remember. It’s in your DNA.

Addition: this post about why I write.