I truly wonder if the writing bug is in our genes, but writing is an art. Look at your family tree and see if, art in some form permeates. Maybe? Maybe not.
This has been so in my family since my immigrant grandfather in 1776 painted portraits to settle his indentured servant hood.
My little granddaughter recently sent this poem. I’d like to share it, as well as snippets of three generations before.
Fall, small, it is turning fall.
It is turning from summer to fall.
It is a bummer that it is fall.
Some parts of our bodies we share with others.
For example, our hands when we high five someone or shake a hand.
We share all of the parts of our bodies except the private parts.
The private parts are any area a swimsuit covers.
Savannah, caught between erupting romantic feelings for Khenan and terror of Anders, is pressured by her best friend to tell Gabriel’s father Judson he has a son. With reluctance she does and worries what her response will be when Judson arrives to meet Gabe, their son.
Mr.Flynn was a pleasant looking middle aged man with high broad shoulders and big brown eyes and his face always wore a smile; straight and well framed, he had never loved anybody and no one had ever loved him.
Anyone else share similar stories?