I’ve been a writer as long as I’ve been an artist. I’m not saying I’m a professional writer. I want to preserve a lives by the telling of their stories. My early writings were about fictional people. I was a child in a troubled family and difficult circumstances. We seemed to roll from one trial to another. I made up stories about parents I wished for and for a me I longed for. After a while I had different things to yearn after, so I wrote about my own life. I wish I wrote about something noble in myself, but my life and a noble life haven’t yet become acquainted. I write for me. I’m a journal keeper. I write about wishes, dreams, struggles, but for the most part I write about things I want to always remember. I love being able to open up one of my journals and bring good memories back to life. There is seldom a time when I go back to read about the bad stuff; the venting and weeping on paper. I can read about the stresses of parenthood, but also about its joys. There were moments in the raising of three children where it was so sweet that I wept from the joy of it. I want to recall all of it, because reading it helps me relive the good times, but also reveal how I often spent far too long on the bad times.

Now that my children are grown and have families of their own, fewer stories are about moments with them. I remember when I was their age and got so busy with life and my own family that I didn’t give my parents the attention they deserved. Now I understand why my mom longed for more time with me and even more telephone calls.

My mom passed away six and a half years ago. I can still remember her voice and see her face. I recall our times together, both good and bad. My grandchildren don’t know her very well. I wanted a way to tell her story for them. She was deep into her time with Alzheimer’s Disease when I realized how important it was to tell something about her. I could no longer ask her questions and hear stories about her growing up. I looked around her small house and saw the things she had hanging on the wall or sitting on shelves. I saw her quilts and her beloved dog Penny. So I told about her by sharing a video about the things she loved.

Sometimes a story is best told like that. As long as I live, it will bring my mom to life once more.