Beginning my seventh decade, I find my life scrolling on and on with memories from long ago. I wonder how something in my mind can be fresh and vibrant when it happened 50 years ago. Such a puzzlement.
Sometimes all it takes is the smell of crayons, the song of a meadowlark, or the sight of an old photograph, and suddenly I’m transported back to another place and another time. A sunny California farm day as a kid. My first kiss. College. Moldavia. Every detail right there.
I became a teacher at 40. As a late bloomer, those first few days of teaching were magical. Perfect for me with the best classes ever. I love teaching 3rd grade with all my heart. And somehow, the magic continued for twenty-two wonderful years.
I taught during a time when a child’s third-grade teacher was still a magical queen. We were expected to know everything, fix everything, and somehow make every day an adventure. And we did. One day, I even turned two guinea pigs into six through the miracle of birth, for goodness’ sake. Capture the classroom canary with a broom? That was me.
I could dry tears over hurt feelings, celebrate lost teeth, cheer on reluctant readers, and convince children that they were capable of amazing things. Looking back now, those memories seem almost enchanted.
Then there was the farm that held a different kind of magic. The changing seasons, newborn animals, endless work, spectacular sunsets, and the satisfaction of building something with your own hands all became part of the story of my life.
Every season has its own treasures.
Every chapter leaves footprints in our hearts.
Just recently, I met a delightful eighty-eight-year-old woman who is writing little vignettes for her grandchildren. She wants them to know about the world in which she grew up —a world that looks very different from the one we live in today.
I smiled as she talked.
What a priceless gift she is creating.
It reminded me that every one of us has stories worth telling.
The stories that still make us laugh. The ones that bring a tear. The adventures that taught us something. The people we’ll never forget. Moments that quietly changed the direction of our lives. Those memories deserve to be preserved.
You think you’re not a writer? Storytellers don’t need to spell every word correctly or know every rule of grammar. They simply tell the story. If you can’t write or type, then talk. Computers and phones have microphones perfect for capturing memories in your own voice.
Your children and grandchildren won’t remember whether you used a comma correctly. They’ll remember your voice. They’ll remember your heart.
Buy yourself a journal.
Open a blank page.
Just begin with the following phrase —
“Have I got a story for you!”
The memories are there. Now, dust them off and record them. You’ll be glad you did.
