I received a very honest email from a friend today.  She was talking about the death of her mother which occurred over 50 years ago.  I hope to publish it on this site, as soon as she lets me know how she wants it posted.  I hope others write their stories as well.

Today I went to my women’s writing group.  It is amazing how many fine writers there are at lakeside.  I read another piece about growing up in my hometown of Murdo, South Dakota.  Perhaps one day I’ll have another book on that topic.  Perhaps, in fact, I’ll ask for people’s stories from that tiny town.  I guess all of our memoirs are written, in part, from a place of loss.  Even painful memories carry with them a sense of nostalgia.  What do you think about this?  I don’t want to write into empty air.  Please give me your thoughts on this statement!  Wind coming up.  i’m getting sleepy.  It’s been a long day but too early to go to bed. Is anyone else present out there? I promise to match you story for story.   Judy

Update – My friend has graciously allowed me to post what she wrote:

How I coped with Mom’s death:
I was eleven years old, and I didn’t cope well when it happened.  Back then, there were no grief counselors.  Dad made us go up to the graveyard in the long, hot months after her interrment.  He would fall to his knees on her grave and cry.  It was awful. Embarrassing.  Plus, I thought about what was happening to her underground, and it made me so sick.  I got so I didn’t cry. People were nosy in our small town.  “How are you coming along out there, all by yourselves?” old people often asked me on the street, and I’d say just fine, just fine. The only positive thing I did for myself was in my making a vow to Mom that I’d somehow make her proud.  This vow stopped me from being totally wild when I was in high school, from going “too far” with just any guy, and it made me want to make A’s.  Yes, A’s would convince me that I was good enough to please my mother who wert in heaven. When I got engaged at age 16 I “went too far.”  Afterwards, I would cry and cry in my boyfriend’s arms, just so sad for me that I was a motherless child.  My boyfriend hated it.  He couldn’t get me to stop crying. All my life I have dealt with handling her death.  I got so greedy to have any little snip from her life, but started with that too late.  By the time I was no longer embarrassed to ask people what they remembered of mom, most of them were dead.  I asked Dad for her writing.  He said, “I got rid of it.  It made me too sad.”  He probably got rid of it because he married a year or so after Mom’s death. I have a little box of her things, such a little box.  Sometimes I hold a scrap of paper she’s written on to my nose, as if I can smell her into being. I have bonded with females, I think always wanting a mother.  None quite works.  I am still in grief when I read a wonderful book and think, oh!  Mom would just love this.  I envision calling her on the phone and sharing.  She’d love her grandkids and they’d love her.  I can’t even think long about this.  My daughter Carolyn named after Mom has built a shrine to Mom in her house that includes many of Mom’s pictures.  A beautiful face with bright, intelligent eyes.  I’m still grieving, aren’t I?  And yes, I’ve had counseling, and the grief stays pretty raw despite all those good words.  —Carolyn O’Neal