Nostalgia

Do you wish you could preserve your footprints on this planet by saving your stories? Do you often wish you knew more about a relative who has passed away? How many times have you heard someone say, “There are so many questions I should have asked”?

My first car was a 1973 Pontiac Firebird, candy apple red with a white roof and a black interior. My father gave it to me for Christmas in 1972 as a reward for my pending college graduation the following May.

There is a certain truth you must realize when writing a memoir: You are the central character in the story, therefore you must write about who you are. You cannot assume that the reader knows you, even if they are a close relative…

There’s a lot to love about being in your 60s. And, if you are 60, you may remember the 1960s. That may depend on how many mind-altering experiences you had in the 1960s, however. These two “60s” have a great deal in common…

Sometimes there are things that we don’t even notice are gone. And other times, we see the translucent outline of what once was, because of the history it embodies, because of the story it keeps alive in us. The past informs who we are…

Even before the pandemic kept us stuck at home searching for new hobbies, an entire industry was mushrooming to help people create a modern version of the beloved photo album. From Shutterfly and Mixbook to Walgreen’s…

I am sure you recall hearing kids groaning ‘oh, not that story again.’ It might have been in a private setting or embarrassingly public, but the sagging shoulders and bored faces are the same. You might even have been one of those offspring once. Read More

Writing your memoir is a profound gift to yourself and to those with whom you’ve shared a walk down difficult paths. Read More

In these new and – as everyone says – ‘unprecedented’ times, we are all stuck indoors, with a lot of time on our hands. I don’t know about you, but I am watching a lot more television than usual…

I was a clever gatherer of things. Mostly paper. In neat piles. Inside of drawers. Resting innocuously on shelves. Tucked into boxes that lurked in the shadowy recesses of my garage…