Jan 1948 - 2017

Four years ago, I was semi-newly retired and still sorting through what to do now that I was no longer starting my day at 6:45 in a high school classroom.

On a whim, I signed up for a writing class at a city museum.
       Entering the room that first day I found long tables grouped into a rectangle, with enough room for about fifteen. To the most part we were a homogenous group, women of a certain age, except for one or two women who looked to be early thirties.
       Our facilitator was one of us – a woman who looked to be my age, with reddish-blond hair, a tentative smile, and expressive hands. She welcomed back those who’d taken the class before as well as those of us who were new. Soon we were off – responding to the prompts she’d provided. To the most part the class wrote memoir, with an occasional poem or reflection thrown in, but from the first we all received the same title.

Writers.

I had spent years teaching Dickinson, and Fitzgerald, and Poe, and Kafka. They were writers. But Jan listened to us and validated what we did and she called us writers. Over time, I began to believe her.

There are few people that I can say changed my life, but she did.

Because of her, I’ve gathered my past into concrete memories and recalled events I thought I’d lost. Because of her encouragement, I’ve written two books and started a third. Because she told me I needed a blog, here I am.

After a sudden and unexpected diagnosis, she passed away this week.