Yesterday I spoke to my mom on the phone.  She will be eighty years old next year.  When I was four years old, she was widowed and left to raise five of us. The youngest was two and the oldest was fifteen.  It was a challenging but colorful childhood with no father and a mom who struggled.  What else was she to do?  She cared enough to struggle.  Anyway, had a heartwarming conversation with her yesterday.  She expressed guilt over not having encouraged me more.  She told me that my writing transported her to another place (and she is very immobile these days).  She was impressed and felt sorry that she didn't really see whatever talent I had. I told her that I wouldn't have had my life any other way.  I told her that I made my own choices and that I wanted to live a life before writing.  And that is what I did.  I love my mom.

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