Writers block.
Sort of.
There are stories I want to write and share with the world, but then again I don't. Some of my stories I want to keep as mine. Does this make me selfish if I am not willing to share?
I come from a family of story tellers, of people who love to talk and entertain, but yet are calm and listen. I want to uphold the family name.
Today I listened to my grandfather voice. His voice had been recorded many years ago when my mother was still in high school. But it was his voice. The voice of a man I never knew on this earth. The voice of a man who I have only seen in pictures, the voice of a man that I have tried to form in my mind as being real, but never quite comprehending his life.
Grandpa Fred died 25-years ago this coming January.
And for 25 years my grandma has lived alone. . . or so it would seem.
They are so much in love. (yes, I wrote that sentence in present tense on purpose)
Grandpa was a large man - tall and solid with a thick head of hair and large hands that were worn from hard work. Handsome.
He was my grandma's only true love and the way she speaks of him makes my heart burst with pride.
I started my grandma Rueleen's three part love story in the summer with the promise of finishing it. . . six months later I haven't made any progress, it is now in the making.
You see, the story isn't mine to tell, but her's - It is only my privilege to write it down so that others can feel the power of this love. And I will do it because I come from a line of story tellers and as a story teller I will share this story.
Happy New Year's Eve.
