Sometimes significant dates are anticipated with fanfare, others sneak into your head with “how did that happen? Can’t be that long, seems like yesterday.” (Like a kid or grandchild suddenly older than you think they should be). With a slight head adjustment you celebrate accordingly or acknowledge, guess it has been that long.

A seed had been planted, unintentionally, but sown nonetheless. I was fairly new to a group on Facebook when a childhood friend mentioned my comments (on anything) ran long and wordy. Hmm, maybe I should be more productive with all those words/events/stories bouncing around my head.

Eight years ago I started blogging, assuming it was a passing fad I’d grow tired of in a few months. It was a means to preserve the stories of my youth. The most memorable event from my childhood was the death of my 12 year old brother when I was almost 8. It left gaping wounds in all of us (mom, dad, big sister & grandparents). No matter how many times that cut was stitched and covered up with a clean bandage, it routinely popped back open and began to fester. Year after year, decade after decade. A tragedy of this magnitude is not something you heal from. It simmers beneath the surface for the rest of your life. Sometimes clinging painfully for weeks, other times sinking to greater depths, but always lurking, making sure there would never be a day in my life since October 11, 1958 when this fissure of grief would disappear.

A few of my early ‘Larry’ stories were excruciating hard to write and landed me in a funk for a spell. Surprisingly though, most of my big brother tales have had the opposite effect. They have been inspirational and gratifying which does my heart a lot of good. It’s been uplifting to recall what filled his 8-12 year-old days, playing baseball (he was a southpaw), shooting marbles in our driveway, using his BB gun at the dump, riding his Schwinn, catching pigeons in barn rafters late at night with dad, his lisp, his white blonde hair. He was kind, well liked and had a lot of friends.

From the beginning friends from our hometown where Larry and I grew up offered morsels of information about him I never knew before. Since Larry was 4-1/2 years older than me, we traveled in different social circles (I really didn’t have a social circle) during our short life span together. Those fragment peeks into Larry’s life (without his little sister) has been the most positive aspect of blogging.

When I’d get stumped trying to capture another day in the life of Larry I’d write about growing up in our small, northwest Iowa town, church, school days, dating, eloping, home life and more church. The 3 M’s in my life, marriage, motherhood and menopause has always been a fruitful source of mundane material. When I posted story number 100, 200, 300 and recently 400, I celebrated, kinda pleased with my longevity of commitment and growing totals.

Writing this ordinary blog about my life has been the most therapeutic, frustrating, immensely rewarding, soul-searching, candid, tear filled endeavor. The pictures included in my posts bring me contentment and joy, plus the comments after I publish are better than what I write! I’m trying to preserve the memories of my life-with Larry and life without.

Don’t know how much longer I’ll continue to write. It seems prudent now to go back to the beginning and proofread, edit and delete (a few which were written without much forethought or kindness). If I come across any that are particularly interesting I’ll repost it occasionally for those not with me since the beginning. For every one of your encouraging comments, this Storyteller from a One-Stoplight Town remains in your debt. Profoundly, sincerely, enormously, thoroughly, eternally and sincerely grateful for every kind word you’ve written…