By Linda C. Defew
Grandchildren are God's way of compensating us for growing old.
~Mary H. Waldrip
Like nothing I had ever done before, writing my stories worked like magic, touching hearts along the way. And, it felt good to know I was leaving my memories behind, my individual fingerprint, for future generations. But, I never dreamed that the imprint was already taking place.
When I mailed the first envelope, a sense of doubt filled my head. "You're actually sending in your personal life story for all the world to see?" Maybe I was being a bit presumptuous, but this was a whole new venture for me. I was so excited, yet it was hard to explain why I was doing it. I wasn't getting paid and it was hard for me to type like I used to. With crippling rheumatoid arthritis hitting in my early thirties, I learned to swallow my pride and find alternative ways of doing things. Over the years, surgeries to correct deformities in my hands had been temporary. So, in order to get back to the keyboard, I resorted to typing with one hand, using the eraser end of a fat pencil like I used in first grade. It wasn't easy, but my brain adapted quickly, letting me know there were no more excuses. I had always wanted to be a writer and the time had come. Now, with thoughts of my disease getting progressively worse, I had a good reason to make it happen.
My life experiences gave me a lot to write about -- scoliosis at age twelve, living with RA, going through a traumatic divorce, raising two children on my own, remarriage in my forties -- and, now, being a grandmother. The more stories I put into the computer, the more stories formed in my head. Writing became such a huge part of my life I couldn't see myself ever not writing.
As time went on, some of my stories and articles were published in magazines, newspapers, online, and in newsletters. I found the market was there if I did my part right and didn't give up. A few of them even paid me, but the greatest reward for me was seeing my work in print. I didn't think it could get any better. I was wrong.
One day while my eight-year-old granddaughter, Taylor, was visiting, she asked if she could play games on my computer. I didn't have many games, so I showed her my Word file and told her how I write and save my stories on it. She was already my number one fan. I always called her when I got something published. Being a devoted animal lover, she especially liked the ones about my dogs. "Okay," she said. "Do you think I could write a story?"
Thrilled at the prospect, I said, "Sure you can!" I opened up a new page for her. "Think of a story you would like to tell and type it like you're talking to a friend." I left her alone to concentrate. Before long, she called for me and asked me to read what she had written. It was just a short paragraph about her dog, Maggie, but she was heading in the right direction. Then, I showed her how to name it and save it and told her to keep thinking of things to add to it. "You can add another paragraph on your next visit," I said. Seeing the sparkle in her eyes, I wondered where I would be today if I had starting writing at her age.
In a few weeks, Taylor was back and made a beeline for my computer room. I could see it in her eyes. She had something to add to her story. I waited a while before going back to check on her. When I did, she was in deep concentration, so I didn't dare disturb her. Instead, I watched from the doorway as tears filled my eyes. She was typing with my big pencil, eraser down, slowly pecking out every word.
I motioned for my husband in the other room. "Come and see what she's doing," I whispered.
He shook his head and smiled. "She's copying you, Linda. That's a real compliment."
I nodded, but couldn't say a word. My technique was different, but it didn't matter to her. That simple act showed me it wasn't how I typed, but that she wanted to do it like me. I had inspired her; now, she was inspiring me.
Sometimes I wish Taylor had known me when I played piano, crocheted, embroidered and typed eighty words per minute. But, she never knew that person and still believes in me. In the eyes of a child, she sees past my crippled hands and unorthodox attempts to get the job done. And because of that, I'll try harder not to let her down.
Grandchildren are God's way of compensating us for growing old.
~Mary H. Waldrip
Like nothing I had ever done before, writing my stories worked like magic, touching hearts along the way. And, it felt good to know I was leaving my memories behind, my individual fingerprint, for future generations. But, I never dreamed that the imprint was already taking place.
When I mailed the first envelope, a sense of doubt filled my head. "You're actually sending in your personal life story for all the world to see?" Maybe I was being a bit presumptuous, but this was a whole new venture for me. I was so excited, yet it was hard to explain why I was doing it. I wasn't getting paid and it was hard for me to type like I used to. With crippling rheumatoid arthritis hitting in my early thirties, I learned to swallow my pride and find alternative ways of doing things. Over the years, surgeries to correct deformities in my hands had been temporary. So, in order to get back to the keyboard, I resorted to typing with one hand, using the eraser end of a fat pencil like I used in first grade. It wasn't easy, but my brain adapted quickly, letting me know there were no more excuses. I had always wanted to be a writer and the time had come. Now, with thoughts of my disease getting progressively worse, I had a good reason to make it happen.
My life experiences gave me a lot to write about -- scoliosis at age twelve, living with RA, going through a traumatic divorce, raising two children on my own, remarriage in my forties -- and, now, being a grandmother. The more stories I put into the computer, the more stories formed in my head. Writing became such a huge part of my life I couldn't see myself ever not writing.
As time went on, some of my stories and articles were published in magazines, newspapers, online, and in newsletters. I found the market was there if I did my part right and didn't give up. A few of them even paid me, but the greatest reward for me was seeing my work in print. I didn't think it could get any better. I was wrong.
One day while my eight-year-old granddaughter, Taylor, was visiting, she asked if she could play games on my computer. I didn't have many games, so I showed her my Word file and told her how I write and save my stories on it. She was already my number one fan. I always called her when I got something published. Being a devoted animal lover, she especially liked the ones about my dogs. "Okay," she said. "Do you think I could write a story?"
Thrilled at the prospect, I said, "Sure you can!" I opened up a new page for her. "Think of a story you would like to tell and type it like you're talking to a friend." I left her alone to concentrate. Before long, she called for me and asked me to read what she had written. It was just a short paragraph about her dog, Maggie, but she was heading in the right direction. Then, I showed her how to name it and save it and told her to keep thinking of things to add to it. "You can add another paragraph on your next visit," I said. Seeing the sparkle in her eyes, I wondered where I would be today if I had starting writing at her age.
In a few weeks, Taylor was back and made a beeline for my computer room. I could see it in her eyes. She had something to add to her story. I waited a while before going back to check on her. When I did, she was in deep concentration, so I didn't dare disturb her. Instead, I watched from the doorway as tears filled my eyes. She was typing with my big pencil, eraser down, slowly pecking out every word.
I motioned for my husband in the other room. "Come and see what she's doing," I whispered.
He shook his head and smiled. "She's copying you, Linda. That's a real compliment."
I nodded, but couldn't say a word. My technique was different, but it didn't matter to her. That simple act showed me it wasn't how I typed, but that she wanted to do it like me. I had inspired her; now, she was inspiring me.
Sometimes I wish Taylor had known me when I played piano, crocheted, embroidered and typed eighty words per minute. But, she never knew that person and still believes in me. In the eyes of a child, she sees past my crippled hands and unorthodox attempts to get the job done. And because of that, I'll try harder not to let her down.
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