“There is a time for everything under heaven…” Ecclesiastics 3
From the beginning of my life until I left rural northeast PA after college, I spent a great deal of time with my grandparents. In June 1943 my mother brought me directly from the hospital to live on her parents’ farm because Daddy was overseas, a soldier in WWII. After three years he came home and only then did we leave the farmhouse. My bond with my grandparents continued to be strong and after Grandpa had a stroke, I stayed with them summers and on weekends during the school year.
In one way I believe this proved to be beneficial in allowing me hours alone to ponder and also write down my thoughts expressed in poems and stories and such.
At the age of eight, I wrote a speech about being the first woman president of the United States and proudly read it to group of relatives. My main premise was giving everything to everyone. Sound familiar? My politics soon changed—influenced by my staunch Republican grandmother.
The point of this meandering is a time factor. Not that I stopped writing entirely but that I never returned to the early place of quiet hours pursuing the creative ideas flowing from my being and taking pen to paper.
Now is my season once again of “a time to write.”