As I transform my memoirs into basic readability, I imagine the words lending themselves to a progeny-thanking moment. It may be that I will create words that will transcend generations, like those on the one page that my great, great, great-grandma Eliza wrote about her life, describing her loss of home and hearth to Indians on the prairie. “All of our possessions were scattered and broken, but we escaped with our lives and one lone, unbroken dinner plate.”

That note from that 19th century pioneer has had a major impact on my 21st century urban life. The possibility that my progeny may find the same power in one of my essays spurs me onward! Unfortunately, I expect that the one page that survives me will be on potty training.

If I expect any of my work to be as profound and life-affecting as my grandmother’s letter, then I’d better get writing! There must be at least one other person in the world who could benefit from my life-lessons. (The husband, who has dedicated his life to deciphering the mystery of me, doesn’t count!)

So, can I do this? Can I write a book? Good grief, if I have the patience and courage to live my life, I should be up to it! I sit at the computer, in the midst of my unkempt world of pestilence and pitfalls and I think, “This is it! I’m doing it!”

I’m compiling it all into a book, maybe even several books… but then I’ll have to start a printing house and a publishing company …

Reality bite: Grandiose delusions are treatable.

[1] The daughter says give credit for this one to the writer of Animal Farm.
[2] According to Dad, the expert.

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