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On Rereading My Grandmother's Journal

Some writers find their subject in libraries or lecture halls; I found mine in a shoebox of spiral notebooks my mother never got around to throwing away.

I keep thinking about how much easier it is to say what you feel than to write it down where someone else might read it. Even so, I want my grandchildren to know their lives were shaped by people who appreciate the small things: a warm meal, a quiet porch, a letter that finally arrived after a long winter.

An unguarded honesty about what actually stays with a person over the years is not something craft alone can manufacture.