from the prairie

This is the first day of my blog, though I have spent days thinking about having a blog, of pondering joining the ever-growing ranks of those who pour out their souls to those like me who only read and click “close."

There is just something about putting words to paper, typing and re-typing and thinking to your self and out loud about what is important enough to record for posterity.

Such has been my dilemma for nearly 6 years. 6 years. It hardly seems like it could be so long ago when we boarded the plane bound for Miami, all 8 of us, traveling into unknown territory to stay with people we had never met, all of us sniffing the anxious air of a wedding about to take place, a wedding of two mere children, two families, alas, two cultures. We spent 4 days eating Cuban food, food with lots of garlic. And that was the beginning of adding to our family tree, of anticipating the new spouses and new babies yet to join us. And of the almost panicked need to write down those things that are dear to me.

Now, three new children-in-law and 5, nearly 6 grandbabies later, what can I share about life, about my own life that is important enough for them to all know? What can I tell them about being a young girl growing up in the 1950’s, the age of the Kennedys and bomb shelters, of no pants allowed in school unless it is below 0 degrees outside? How can I tell them about the wonders of the Illinois prairie, the grandparents they never knew but who have profoundly influenced my life, making me the “grandmama” I am today.

Perhaps this journal will be the beginning of such things. We shall see.