Bits and Pieces

There are so many things going on…some real and some in my head, perhaps trying to become real. Anyhow I thought if I jotted them down I might be able to reorganize my thoughts and actions, at least for the next few days.

First and foremost—I finished my latest manuscript! I am really happy about that. Of course I have come to love the story and the characters; that always happens. Somehow they just take a piece of my mind and heart right from the start and then go shooting off to the finish. This time though, I had a lot of interruptions, serious interruptions which have resulted in periods when I just couldn't work on what I wanted to…the book! Interruptions which were mainly health related and while they are not all solved or ended, recently I found time to work on 'the book', disappearing into my studio for longer and longer periods of time until this morning it is finished. This manuscript took a bit more research than some of the others but that's always interesting too. Of course, the dreaded editing and rewriting are looming before me but I honestly have to say I love that too. What I call the 'screen edit' has been done. That means I've been staring until I'm cross eyed at the computer screen. This morning, in between loads of laundry, I printed out the manuscript. All 368 pages of it. I've already eliminated about 1,000 words so I'll be looking for more ways to write a bit tighter. But,I'm convinced that in the near future I can honestly say, "It's finished". That is until I send it to my publisher.

Also on my mind are a variety of other things. One night last week I suffered one of my more sleepless nights. No matter what I did things in my head just wouldn't go away so I got up and jotted them down on paper. Sometimes that works. This time it didn't. The next morning, blurry eyed from lack of sleep, I looked at the paper. I'd listed poems and songs as well as books from my childhood. Now I have to admit that my mother was a great story reader and she also loved to recite poems and sing songs from her childhood. It wasn't until I was well into my adulthood that I realized what a treasure these were but of course, the hectic pace of life put them on the shelf. I hadn't thought of these things in years and years. I wondered if it had anything to do with Mother's Day because I sure thought about my mother a lot on that day, not that I don't think of her every day.

The fact I couldn't remember many of them made me nervous. As a writer and a supporter and teacher of the importance of keeping a record of family history, I felt compelled to do something about this. So, thanks to the Internet I Googled the names of the books, songs and poems. I found all of them except one but I'm determined to find that one too if it exists somewhere. My list contained Rudyard Kiplings Just So Stories and I copied all four of them from the Internet. I found one song, My Grandfather's Clock" and a poem, The Walrus and the Carpenter from Through the Looking Glass. The only poem I couldn't find was one that included the words, "Yesterday, beneath the rick, I broke his prison with my pick" It was a poem about a toad. Ah, well, I'll keep looking when I can.

Tomorrow I'll have another set of things to consider and that's okay too. I'm not complaining about anything because I love challenges and think that life itself is a challenge at times. I love my life, past and present, good and bad and we all have that. I thank God everyday for everything that has become part of my life because that's what makes ME.

About Me

I can't believe it's been so many months since I added anything to my blog. Forgive me! There are things that happen and perhaps I can use some of them as an excuse although I really don't like excuses.

I told you about the health problems earlier this year. Well, they continue and I'm not going into all the details but I will bring you up-to-date on the latest. Sixteen days ago I fractured a bone in my right ankle and two in my right foot. I think I have the nastiest feet in the world. Not so much what they look like, although I'd never be picked out of a crowd of feet to be a 'foot model'. They were functional with a bit pain here and there which you kind of get used to; they have been in a painful condition for years and at this time are riddled with arthritis. Not the most interesting subject, right? Of course it had to be my right foot and so for the time-being I can't drive. Being the only driver in the family (the kids are scattered thither and yon [I always wanted to use that phrase]) and my husband hasn't driven in 6 years due to medical conditions, it makes for some interesting getting around. Thank God I have wonderful friends who have volunteered to provide transportation when needed. Now for the good news.

As most of you know, I've been an author for several years. During that time I was never able to get through to an agent, editor or publisher so, being the optimistic soul I am, I published ten books myself always hoping to find that elusive publisher. Last year at the Florida Writers Conference in October 2009 I met Rebecca Melvin of Double Edge Publishing. A Christian publisher who accepted my latest book, Forgiven. I was so excited and the excitement hasn't lessened. She is wonderful to work with, fair, honest and oh-so-helpful. Forgiven will be released in November of this year! I feel as if I should use capital letters for that sentence.

So I've been busy with editing, arranging for promotional help for Double Edge and doing whatever I can to make this the truly exciting, magnificent event of a lifetime. I can't wait to hold the finished project in my hands.

Of course, being the prolific writer I am, I've also been working on the next book. I have about 20 chapters finished but this latest setback (the broken foot) has sapped a lot of time from my days and strength from my body. Still I know that with God's help and encouragement, I will finish this book too.

Let's see what else is new? One of my poems(I don't write many) was accepted for publication in the Fall Issue of the Pen Women, a quarterly magazine sponsored by the National League of American Pen Women. A nice recognition and if I can figure out how to add poetry to my blog, I'll so so. So far the mechanics elude me.

I was asked to teach another creative writing course at South Florida Community College which was to have begun yesterday. Of course, being disadvantaged at the moment we had to postpone that to January when, hopefully, all the parts are back where they should be. I still chair the weekly writer's critique group at Avon Park Library every Friday, I attend as many Florida Writers Association local meetings as I can. I've recently given several speeches but those for next month are iffy unless I can get transportation but all that can be handled, I'm sure. See, I told you I was the eternal optimist.

I am making a promise to myself to write on this blog much more often and hope that some of my faithful blogers will continue to visit. In spite of it all, I consider myself to be one of the luckiest, blessed women. I'm where I want to be; I'm with whom I want to be (Lenny) and I'm doing what I love to do and what I've wanted to do for most of my life (writing). What more could I ask? See you soon, promise.

Tucker and Bunny - A tale of unlikely bedfellows

Pictures trap moments of time on shiny pieces of paper that forever after echo as memories in your heart. Each one holds a story.

“Please can I keep her,” my youngest daughter Jenni cried, holding a ragged stray kitten. She always longed for a pet, but I had to say, “No,” because of my allergies. Truthfully!
Jenni, however, made up for her pet loss by acquiring an overabundance of stuffed creatures. Walruses, seals, elephants, giraffes, dogs, cats, bunnies, several bears and an assortment of endangered animals adorned her bed and every available bit of shelf space in her room.

Each time we went to the Mall she gazed longingly into the local pet palace and browsed among the cages while I kept a happy distance from the furry creatures and their offensive fur, hair and dander.

But when Jenni was nine, as a super surprise for Christmas, I bought her a pretty, blue parakeet complete with cage and accessories. I had been assured that feathers wouldn’t affect my eyes, nose and breathing apparatus as hair and fur did.
Jenni was so excited. “I’ll clean the cage, Mom, and put water and seed in the dishes every day. I promise!”

Of course, we all know who kept the cage clean but Petey was a cute, smart, non-allergenic pet and our pleasant life continued, almost pet-less. He became a member of the family with his cage door open most of the time so that he could visit at will. One of his favorite foods was peas, plain, cooked, then cooled, green peas. He’d stick his beak into the center and eat the soft middle, neatly dropping the hulls on the floor of his cage.

Then Jenni grew up a bit and enter the boyfriend who, without seeking parental permission, presented his little ladylove with a black Lab puppy! Now it was my turn to say, “Jen, you know we can’t have a dog.” But she argued that she would care for Tucker and I wouldn’t be bothered with his hair or dander because he was never going to come into the house. “I’ll keep him downstairs and I’ll clean the playroom. Promise.”

Now could a loving mother turn that offer down? Of course not. So Tucker moved into the basement and Jenni took over the responsibility of not only a dog but the housekeeping of the almost-finished playroom. Kind of.

I, however, retained the bird maintenance—a small chore I had to admit I loved because Petey, at the advent of clean brown paper on the bottom of his cage and fresh water and seeds in the plastic cups, was sent into a frenzy of happiness.

I had to admit that Tucker was an ideal pet and even though I had to go through the playroom to the laundry, I did so without any adverse reactions to the presence of yon dog. Once again peace and harmony reigned in our household.

That might have been the end of the story but there is more. Not long after Tucker joined the family, lo and behold, young ardent boyfriend arrived with another pet for his ladylove. This time it was a rabbit, named Bunny. How original.

“Are you out of your mind?” I cried. “The dog will eat the rabbit.”

“Not so,” the young romancer said, “I’ve brought a cage for the rabbit and we will paper train her to go in the cage.”

Huh, I thought, an unlikely event. A dog and a rabbit that have free run of the room? And a paper-trained rabbit? But, wonder of wonders, the rabbit was cage trained and Bunny and Tucker became fast friends. On occasion I would descend to the lower level of the house and watch in amazement as the rabbit and dog shared a water bowl or playfully romped around the perimeter of the cage—carefully cleaned daily by grateful daughter. I watched Jenni feed some homegrown clover or a stalk of celery to Bunny while holding Tucker in her lap.
Tucker was a typical puppy—robust in energy, cuddly when the occasion presented itself and slipping off to sleep when there wasn’t anyone, or a certain rabbit nearby, to wheedle into action.

Bunny was a funny animal; funny in the way she behaved. While maintaining her rabbit-aloofness, she was very un-rabbit-like at times. When we returned home after an outing, not only did Tucker run to meet us, circling our feet in enthusiastic welcome—so did Bunny. Perhaps she thought she, too, was a dog. But there were limits to her sharing what she considered her domain. If Tucker intruded, she quickly retreated to her cage and smugly pronounced her independence from the foolish frolics that Tucker tried to entice her to join. She had her dignity to protect.

One day I slipped downstairs to see what was happening—it was much too quiet. Mothers of teenager daughters worry about quiet. To my surprise I found Jenni and her boyfriend sitting on the couch watching television. But even more surprising was finding Tucker and Bunny lounging in a chair—together—watching television with them. Talk about strange bedfellows. It was a picture begging to be taken.

Except from award-winning novel, Secrets

The air is crisp and more invigorating here in the mountains and Eve breathes deeply as she walks up the brick path to the wide double doors that are appropriately painted black.
The lingering scent of old flowers and dust greets her as she steps into the vestibule. Soft music comes from a hidden source and yet a hollow silence surrounds her. She hesitates, then looks to the left when a door opens quietly.

The thin, slightly stooped man who stands in the doorway is well into his eighties. His hair and face are almost the same shade of gray but alert, dark eyes peer out from beneath shaggy brows and his face crinkles to a pleasant greeting as he steps forward, “Good morning,” he says, recognizing a stranger. “I’m Edgar Krouder. Been here in Mountain Springs for seventy years. Mortician for forty-some years. My two sons help in the business. You must be Helen’s daughter.”

Again a chilling feeling of being completely out of control sweeps over Eve. How in the world…?
She mumbles agreement and watches him move silently toward her. His black suit, dulled with age is crisply neat. Nothing in the room or about him seems capable of making any noise.
He touches her hand with icy fingers. “We are so very sorry for your loss. We’ve been expecting you. Please, come into the office and we can talk. But first, do you want to see your mother? She’s in the last room,” he points down a dimly lit hallway. “It’s the biggest room we have because we expect a great many mourners. Your mother had so many friends.” His eyes crinkle with pleasure; as if the mere thought of all her mother’s friends gathered together will be a welcome occasion.

Eve is smothered with indecision. Did she want to see her mother so quickly? Maybe she needs a minute to gather herself. Maybe she’ll feel better if she knows what plans have already been made and who made them. “Thank you. I think I’d like to talk first.”

They move into the office, another quiet room with a small desk, a neat line of notebooks marshaled at one end. Eve sits in a comfortable chair facing the desk. Her eyes take in a tall bookshelf to her right that contains more notebooks and several ornate urns. Probably for ashes, she thinks trying to bring her thoughts into focus.

Mister Krouder eases himself into the leather chair behind the desk. His thin fingers straighten a few papers, then he looks at her. Forty-some years of controlled compassion cover his face and guide his words.

“Death is always a shock, even though we all know it is inevitable.” He smiles again, pulling himself effortlessly from solemn to friendly. “Your mother was a wonderful lady. Well loved in the community, active in church, involved in charity, but then you know all that.”

No, I don’t, Eve thinks. I don’t know anything about my mother. Well, not exactly ‘anything’ but not enough. She feels tears prick at the back of her eyes and she bites her lower lip to keep it from trembling.

Mister Krouder takes this sign of emotion as normal and pushes a box of tissues toward his visitor. “She was also very thoughtful and kind, as was her husband. About a year before Joe died, they came in here and made all the arrangements for their demise. Everything is taken care of. She eased the way for you.” His words drift off the ends of his sentences as if a listener can add whatever he wants.

“I’m surprised. She never suggested to me that this was what they had done. When I got news of her death…” Eve stumbles and then goes on, “I thought I’d have to make the arrangements. I don’t even know the man who called me in Washington…” This time Eve’s words ebb away, leaving room for conjecture on the part of her listener.

“Austin Campbell,” he supplies. “Yes, a nice man. Lives on some land he leased from Joe, oh, some years back. They were friends. Or, as close to being friends as you can get with Mister Campbell. Kind of a recluse, he is.”

Eve listens to the muted music and the ticking of a clock somewhere in the office. “I don’t recall Mother mentioning him.”

“Well, not surprising. He’s very quiet. Came right here about your mother though. He found her, called the doctor and waited until they examined her, then followed the ambulance in. Said he’d call you.”

How did Mister Campbell know my name and telephone number, Eve wonders silently?
She sighs. What a contradiction her mother’s life was. Irresponsibly disappearing for months or even years at a time, going off on crazy ventures, yet organized enough to plan for her own funeral.

“Maybe I should see Mother now.” Her words shock her. She hadn’t planned to say that so quickly. But then again, what is the sense of waiting? They rise and she feels his bony fingers take her elbow as they walk down the dim corridor.

“I’ll leave you alone. Take whatever time you need. I’ll wait for you in the front.” He melts away closing the door so softly Eve turns to see if he has really left.

The room is cold. Two small wreaths of flowers are attached to wire stands at each end of the open coffin. There is room for more flowers and she wonders if the racks will be full by the time of the funeral. She makes a mental note to order flowers. Her mind whirls with details. Who will conduct the funeral? What time is it on Friday?

Her mother’s head rests on a satin pillow, her hands folded across the waist of a pale blue dress Eve has never seen. The peaceful expression she wears brings a sudden stab to Eve’s heart. She remembers that peaceful look. Not much upset her mother. She always had a way of dealing with setbacks. Why did Eve remember this now as she looks at her mother’s lifeless body? Why hadn’t that thought crossed her mind last night when she was struggling to remember things about her mother?

The coffin lid is split and the bottom half of her mother’s body is out of sight. Eve wonders if she has shoes and stockings on and then shudders at the senselessness of that thought. She moves closer to the casket, her hands gripped tightly in front of her. Surely there is something she should say, something she should feel instead of the rampant confusion that courses through her. Her throat tightens and she swallows with difficulty. Soft music continues in the background as Eve lowers her eyes from her mother’s face, feeling hot tears trickle down her cheeks. A padded kneeler is next to the coffin. Should she kneel and whisper a prayer? She prays in church on the Sundays she occasionally attends. But they are prayers the minister’s sermon provokes, familiar, nonspecific prayers, nothing she has to originate. Nothing comes to her mind in this silent room where she and her mother are alone for the first time in how long? Too long. Shivering, she pulls a tissue from her purse and wipes her eyes and cheeks dry. She turns her back to the coffin and stands still for a moment, then quietly leaves, not looking back, not praying, not sure of what she has done or should have done.

In the front office again, Mister Krouder opens a file centered on his desk. “Let me review what’s scheduled and if there’s anything you wish to change, we can go over that.” He separates several sheets of paper, spreading them carefully, lining up the tops of the pages, as if that is necessary before reading them. “As I said, we’ve scheduled the funeral for Friday at two o’clock at First Baptist Church, Followers of the Apostles.” He looks up as if waiting for an acknowledgement. Receiving none, he continues, “We chose Friday because one of my associates called the people in Helen’s address book. Since many of them said they wanted to attend the funeral and were scattered around the country, requiring some travel time, we decided Friday was the earliest convenient time.”

It is a long speech and he seems out of breath. “Do you want to add to this list?”

Eve shakes her head. Who would I add?

He pauses and again looks at her, his eyes hooded with professional sympathy, “Interment will follow the services. Reverend Mueller has a wonderful service, both in the church and at graveside.”

Eve stares at him. It sounds as if she’s listening to a package deal for a trip to Barbados. She shifts in her chair, trying to focus on what he is saying.

“We’ve scheduled the viewing from six to eight on Thursday evening. We….”

“No! No viewing!” The words burst from her stiffened lips. He looks startled by her impassioned tone. “No viewing, I couldn’t…my husband, my son… No, I’m sorry but I can’t have a viewing.” She closes her eyes, still the vision of two coffins is so clear they might be just down the dim hallway. The sickly scent of too many flowers, strange lips fluttering across her cheeks, the mumbled words—no, it is too much. Tears seep from beneath her closed eyelids and she takes a deep, grief-shattered breath. “I’m sorry, it’s too painful.”

“But, Missus Marshall, people will expect…”

“No.” It was final.

He watches her for a moment, clearly confused by this sudden turn of events, then resumes his role. “Of course. I understand.” But he doesn’t and he fumbles with the papers again. “We could have a short viewing before the services… At the church. For those who feel it is necessary to spend a few respectful minutes with their beloved friend.”

“Fine.” She is resolved, but relieved. Do whatever you want, go through whatever rituals you have, but don’t include me, not again, not again. Her nails bite into the palms of her hands and she releases her grip, stretching her fingers.

Once again he shuffles through the papers, handing her a sheet with some typed names on it. “This is the list of mourners we’ve notified—taken from your mother’s records, and a list she’d provided to us previously. As you can see, a couple of them are in California.”

Eve doesn’t read it, just folds it in half and slips it in her purse. Before leaving, she gets directions to her mother’s home, noting Mister Krouder’s polite surprise that she needs them.

Want to know more? Autographed copies of this award-winning novel are available by clicking on the title on this blog

Happy Fourth of July!

Yesterday was the Fourth of July…our country's birthday. If anyone watched the celebration in our nation's capital you can't have missed the patriotic excitement on the face of Barry Manilow as he belted out those wonderful songs.

As the camera swept over the crowd this enthusiasm was echoed from face to face. If there were a million people on the National Mall there were two million flags. Big flags, little flags stuck behind visors, waving from the tops of hats and clutched in the hands of folks from senior to the tiniest child. It was a display that was so moving the fireworks almost seemed an anticlimax. In fact, I really felt that they were not only there for the music and the fireworks but because they truly wanted to be in Washington to celebrate this country for what it truly is. Forget the problems, they will be fixed. They were there to exhibit the patriotism that is inherent in every true citizen.

I guess my patriotic ardor comes directly from my parents. They were two of the most avid citizens this country has had. My mom and dad never missed a chance to impress upon my sister and me the value of our citizenship. You see, my parents came to this country in 1930, the height of the depression. They didn't come from poverty or bad government, they came from England. I guess it's the reason they came that makes the difference. They chose to come to America. They could have gone anywhere in the world, or stayed where they were and had a wonderful life. But the call of our freedom, our liberties, our basics were what made them travel across the pond to New York City. Daddy was well educated and perhaps that was what eased him into a job when many didn't have them. After he had established himself, he sent for Mother and they settled into what they truly believed was paradise. They couldn't get over the freedoms; everyone could come and go as they wished. The citizens were generally happy and helpful no matter what their situations. Daddy had established a bank account where his salary was deposited each week. I think the bank was Bank of America but it wasn't the huge conglomerate of today. Anyhow, one evening Daddy came home from work and told Mother their bank had failed. They turned out their pockets and purses and tossed the bills and change onto the bed. That was all they had. But that didn't daunt them, they just started over again. They couldn't wait to explore every nook and cranny of the city and surrounding country. They marveled at things like the Automat and the street vendors. I don't know how many times they visited the Statue of Liberty but I do know that my sister and I went half a dozen times, at least.

It was after my sister and I were born the real exploration of America began. We never missed a museum, a historic place, a battlefield, a post along the roadway that announced some little piece of American history. We were instilled with a deep regard and love for everything American and that feeling hasn't left me. I get goose-bumps when they play the National Anthem, or when a marching band goes by playing a patriotic march. I feel like crying when I see service men and women because it is for me that they have sacrificed so much.

My parents spent the next 53 years loving, learning about and exploring this wonderful country they chose. They passed this legacy on to me and I am forever grateful. You see the difference between them and us is that to us it's a given, to them it was a gift. I try never to forget that.

Lessons Learned

Every once in a while you just have to reflect on what's happened before and why you are where you are and who you are. Most of us take a quick look back once in a while but I've decided it's a good thing to take a long, hard look at the past, not in expectation of finding blame or excuses. Just a look back, over a shoulder that is so grateful for the contributions to my very being made by my parents. I was blessed with a great father and mother and I think I owe them a thought once in a while. Not that I don't think of them every day. What is that saying, "You don't miss something until you no longer have it?" My parents died many years ago and I am not ashamed to say that even today I miss them very much. So, here's what I've been thinking about.

Death is strange. When you're young it is inconceivable and shrouded in mystery. As you grow older death becomes a reality—it happens and has to be dealt with. When my mother died (Daddy died fourteen years earlier) I felt like a very old orphan. From our circle of four we were now two, just me and my sister. I thought the broken circle couldn't be mended but then I realized that life isn't a circle but a chain of links, a series of little circles. Daddy and Mother were the first circle in this country, forging ahead on with a new adventure on a new continent; making a new beginning in their very new life together. My sister and I formed links for the future with our children, and their children are the next set of links, and so on.

Life doesn't end with death unless we let it happen. My parents aren't here anymore but so much of them remains. The only difference is I can't see them. I can hear them though. I smile when I recognize I've said something that sounds like Daddy because I can hear Mother saying, "You are so much like your father." She didn't say it with censure but with love.

Memories are priceless whether they are good ones or not-so-good-ones because they are the texture of your life. I'm the same little girl who sat on the cellar floor with sawdust in her hair, sorting nails and screws for Daddy. I was part of the fishing team that cast a line into the surf in Cape May, New Jersey and dragged smelly fish heads through the water luring crabs into the boat.

The anger I felt because of the many sudden changes of location and schools (because we moved constantly) is softened now because from here I can see advantages I didn't see then. The many moves and unusual lifestyle of my childhood prepared me to be versatile, to accept things as they are, or to do something about them.

When I lost my parents I found I had to overcome a tremendous sense of loss—a loss of something that belonged in my life and wasn't here any longer. It wasn't fair they were gone—it was too soon. I hadn't finished talking to them. Did I tell them enough times, in enough ways how much I loved them? How much I appreciated the world they exposed me to? How precious were the values they taught?

I dealing with my grief I found myself remembering and the more I remembered the better I felt. The feel of sawdust and sand sliding through my fingers, the sound of clippers chopping at a stubborn hedge, my father's laugh, the smell of kippers frying in a big black pan on a sandy beach in Miami are indelibly etched in my soul.

They weren't perfect parents—they could be stubborn and opinionated at times. I thought they were selfish because they were so involved in each other until I saw marriages that didn't have nearly the love or commitment their fifty-three year long marriage had.

Later in life I missed them and resented their absence when they took off on their nomadic wanderings and weren't around to help me with my children. Little did I realize then that before they left they had prepared me for whatever came along by their example. They were always there when I really needed them. Because they had a good life, I did too.

So my musing has brought back those principles, those special events and happenings that made our family unique in some ways and just like so many families in other ways. It doesn't hurt to look back now and then and see what went into the making of 'you' because no matter what, we are a product of our past. Once I didn't realize just how great my past was and now that I do I feel somehow uplifted by these backward glances. Try it. Even the painful parts (and there are painful parts in every life) are softened with time and the knowledge that they were just part of the tapestry of your life.

Voices From the Past -- Voices You Never Want to Hush

Do you have memories of sitting around a picnic table on the Fourth of July? The little kids are throwing Frisbees and the bigger kids (write men in here) are tossing a football and challenging their brothers and cousins to impossible feats. It's hot and the women of the family are sitting in the shade. How often have you heard the phrase, "Remember when…" and the memories begin to flow as if the gates to the dam have been opened? These are voices from the past.

Do you remember holidays where a crowded, hot kitchen was filled with delicious scents? Women in aprons bantered across a flour covered table and laughter filled the air. The counters were covered with pies and Aunt Alice's special veggie casserole was just coming out of the oven.

How about running barefoot across the damp lawn as the sun slid below the horizon, chasing fireflies, carrying mason jars with holes punched in the lids. There are cousins everywhere and the older folks are relaxing in rocking chairs on porches that don't have screens.

Have you ever stood around a dining room table while thirty relatives sang Happy Birthday to you and there are not many dry eyes because another family milestone has been reached? Do you remember your first date with the man/woman you married? Is there one Christmas that is so special you can rerun it minute by minute?

This is the stuff of Memoirs. These are the stories that are the fabric of Family History. And, every day Family History is being lost because those memories are just that…they are hidden in the hearts and minds of a family and unless they are preserved they will disappear generation by generation.

I don't usually get up on a soapbox but there is one subject near and dear to my heart and it's Family History. I know many of you are doing the genealogy thing these days and that's great. But in the end it's just a list of names and dates. The true value of a family is not there. The true value are memories future generations won't know about; the stories that set the pace for the future, and they will disappear and that's a terrible shame.

Maybe what influenced me to become so engrossed in getting everyone to write a Memoir is my own family. I had great parents and a loving sister but that was all the family in America. No grandparents, aunts, uncles or cousins. My parents came to this country in 1930 and never looked back. They were the most gung-ho citizens I've ever run into. But, sitting down to dinner was the only family reunion we knew and after my parents died there was no one to ask about what happened 'way back then'. So, being an author, I thought it would be a good idea to write down whatever I could remember. Not just a list of things but a running story about our lives and it was fun. Once the first chapter (on my father teaching my mother to drive) was written the memories rushed back. I didn't really think of it as a 'book', just a record for the children. When I sent it to them their first comment was, "I never knew Grandma and Grandpa did any of that stuff," I did get it published (see Following Daddy in my list of published books).

But, what I preach and teach is not that everyone should write a book. It should be a written personal account of every good, bad, emotional, silly, interesting and memorable thing that you and your family did together. If you are fortunate enough to have relatives that remember 'back when' you have an asset I didn't have but the stories are there and they must be preserved.

Today my goal is to help anyone interested in writing a Memoir do so. It doesn't have to be a piece of literary excellence, just a collection of stories remembered.

Every day precious Family History is being lost. Your family now and in the future will thank you. It isn't difficult, after all you have the entire cast of characters and the plot lines right there in your heart and head.