What's in YOUR genes?

I got an email the other day from one of my cousins on my mother's side, commenting on my blog. (I do wish she'd sign in and comment publicly, but I'm glad to hear from her, in whatever manner she chooses!)

(That's me, 3rd from the left in stripes; Nancy is the 3rd woman from the right, behind the young boy.)

Nancy is the youngest child of my mother's middle sister - mom was the oldest - and, growing up we really weren't close, although we did see each other. We didn't live real far away, but Nancy grew up in a small community and we were the Big City family. I have wonderful memories of visiting my aunt and uncle and cousins - they lived on a farm, down a red clay road. I remember loving being out in "the country" and enjoying the freedom from noise and traffic, seeing their critters and spending time together. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can still see Aunt Catherine ironing on her mangle iron. We were always warned about being careful not to touch it, but Aunt Catherine could make it sing! (I'm willing to consider that my memories may be colored by time, but don't tell me, please.)

I'm not sure that any of us look very much like each other, although careful inspection would probably reveal facial and other physical similarities. Our mothers "favored" one another, although old age revealed that my mom looked most like their mother, while Aunt Catherine was the image of their dad.

Many years have gone by since I've seen Nancy. The last time I recall clearly was at our granny's funeral in 1968, although I do think we visited once after that. The point is that we still live very different lives: she still lives in a small Southern community, I live in a major metropolitan area in the Northwest. Our religions have always been different, her family following the more conservative beliefs of our granny, and our family being staunch Episcopalians after the manner of our grandfather. According to Nancy's recent email, we also have some divergence of politics, though apparently we're not on opposing sides on everything.

We were raised in a time and place - and by mothers - who taught us that family is important and that others' religion and politics were to be respected and not used as a bludgeon. So although Nancy and I aren't "part" of each other's lives in the traditional sense, we still have that Cousin Connection that has withstood the passage of time.

But Nancy's email opened my eyes to the many ways we are alike, despite our apparent differences. Nancy is - or as she says, "was" - a writer. (I think writers are always writers, we just sometimes don't write!) That gift of writing comes directly from our common grandfather; my sister is similarly gifted, and my mom was prolific in the style of her father. I don't know if Aunt Catherine "wrote," nor do I know about my mom's youngest sister, Aunt Marion. I do know that Aunt Marion's daughter Laurel also writes. My sister's daughter is gifted, as is my oldest son. And one of my most poignant memories surrounding my mother's last illness is that all three of her children were mentally preparing her lengthy obituary even as we were gathering from different parts of the country to be with her. Writers all.

Nancy, who is three years older than I, also loves adventure, collecting "stuff," spoiling her grandchildren, and reading obituaries. Just like me. None of this is learned from each other, obviously, so I can only assume that it is implanted in our DNA as surely as the color of our hair, our eyes, our body types, and our musical abilities. It seems to me that this is a great gift. That, in us, our grandparents and parents live on. Not just in appearances, but in behaviors and talents. That in some small way, John Herbert Peck (1874-1961) and Willie Ola Peck (1887-1968) are still having an influence on the world. That the grandchildren of their grandchildren will carry parts of them forward to blossom in yet another generation.

I love this feeling of connection I have with Nancy, and I'm so thankful that she cared enough to not only read my blog entries, but to write and tell me about our commonalities. Maybe one of these days she'll even comment here. You'll know it's her by the writing style!

The Moving Finger writes...

"...and, having writ, Moves on;
nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it."
The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

My finger moves only to keyboard nowadays, seldom ever to write. And when I do write, it's frequently - usually - illegible, even to me. My handwriting was never anything to brag about, once I was freed from the uniformity of first grade manuscript and third grade cursive. By 6th grade I had developed my own "ruffles and flourishes" if you will, with "g"s and "y"s trailing reverse fish-hooks (just like every other girl my age) and "i"s dotted with great circles (also like every other girl my age!). Fortunately, this was before the age of the smiley face, or I'm sure my schoolwork would have sported that degradation as well!

My adult handwriting was an improvement - of sorts. My mom used to say, "Cheryle's handwriting is a beatiful thing to see; you just can't read it!" And she was right: my college papers, letters, notes to my children's teachers, all swept gracefully, grammatically correctly, Emily Post-ly (Postally?) across the papers upon which they were inscribed - and there were NO spelling errors! Folding them to place in an envelope, or stapling the corners together, I would often feel a sense of pride in how pretty they were, never giving a thought to how difficult they were to read. After all, I could read them; what's wrong with you people?

Even through years of using typewriter and then computers, it was easier to grab a sheet of paper and write something than it was to type (or keyboard) it. After all, formatting, finding paper, turning on the printer - well it was just easier to grab a piece of notebook paper from the kids or a legal pad from my office and write the letter, note, whatever.

My sister and I used to write long chatty letters to each other. She lived on one Coast, I on the other, and whenever a fat, legal-sized envelope with my sister's handwriting on it showed up in the mailbox, I saved it for when I could sit and relish it. Cross-outs, digressions, coffee rings - all were dear to me and cherished. And I responded in kind. Sometimes our letters would start on one day and end 12, or 15, or 20 pages later, on another. What treasures they were - and are; I've saved them all.

And I loved - and still do - seeing my mother's handwriting. It takes me back to childhood notes for school, or birthday cards, or mementos for my children, and, of course, her letters to me. I enjoy my grandfather's handwriting, an art learned in the 19th century, with letters that look so different today, peppered with words and phrases lost in the whirl of progress. And I treasure the school papers and too few letters that I have from my own boys, benchmarks of their progress in school, postcards from far-away places, Mother's Day and birthday cards that can make me cry or smile - or both!

Alas! I have become such a slave to the keyboard and email that I can barely write any longer. Sometimes it's an effort even to sign my name on a credit card slip (well, not that much of an effort!). My hand shakes sometimes when I try to write; it's not a real palsy because it doesn't happen any other time (like when I eat). But frequently I have to stop and form each letter in a word very intentionally, otherwise my writing is illegible even to me.

I will not leave behind volumes of letters written to my children and grandchildren, nor will I have many to add to those precious ones tucked away in boxes. And I'm sorry for that.

My sister sent an article about handwriting to me over the weekend. It was sent, of course, electronically, which was kind of ironic. But it speaks to the loss of this once revered art form, and it made me nostalgic for the "good old days."

Progress is good and I love the convenience and speed of computers. Hey, if not for computers, you'd be missing all this musing! But I'm sorry that future generations won't have the evocative odor of letters stuffed in old shoe boxes and hidden away in closets. Or know that thrill of touching a piece of paper that grandfather rested his hand upon more than a century ago. Or finding that word that a relative just never spelled the same way twice. Or especially the quiet joy of holding a letter from a long-dead loved one, re-reading the words so carefully written in an ageing hand, the faded ink a testament to taking precious time to say, "I love you and I miss you. Write soon. Love, Mom"

Well, it's about time!

Okay, so it's about time I stopped putting this off and got started. I set up this blog way back in July, but kept putting off starting it up. You know how it is - Well, I want to start with something profound but not offputting. Or: I'm going to be out of town and I want to start when I'm going to be here and can develop the habit of blogging. Or: If I were to start today, I'm so pissed off that it would just be a rant.

Then, of all things, I discovered that one of my dear d-i-ls had started a Blogger Blog! And I felt that if I started mine she would feel that I was trying to steal her thunder. Which is stupid for two reasons: 1. She's not that kind of person; 2. We have distinctly different styles and write about different kinds of things. Okay, three reasons: 3. Blogs are personal.

So today, I start. Tomorrow maybe you'll get the rant, but today it's just stuff.

I am a frustrated writer. I've had a few things published. I even got paid for a couple of them, but mostly it's been the occasional Letter to the Editor. I love to voice my opinion (as you'll learn if you read this very often), and I love language. I don't think I'll ever write the Great American Novel, and I don't even think I want to. I'm more of a personal experience/opinion (see what I mean?)/observation type of writer. Along with the occasional spiritual insight.

After my mom died in 1992, I spent the next year or so transcribing her memoirs. Someday I hope to get them in a form that is publishable. I'm now in the process of transcribing my grandfather's memoirs. I've been working on them for about a year and should have them done by 2020. Maybe sooner, but I'm not holding my breath! His memoirs sat in a box for many years, then were donated by my mom (his daughter) to the University of Florida, where they sat in several boxes for a lot more years. A couple of years ago, my cousins went to the University and made copies. They sent them to me (at my request) and I work on them when I'm not traveling, goofing off, reading, watching my grandson, or drinking wine. Now, of course, they'll fall a bit further down the list so I can blog.

In the meantime, this gives me an outlet for my thoughts and ideas, and maybe I'll meet some new people who will inspire me to write more and procrastinate less.

For now, I think I'll take a nap...