I’ve been thinking about when I actually said the words "I am a writer." The journey has been long and at times arduous. Still I question those words. "I am a writer." Do we say them to believe them, or do we believe them; therefore we say them. My need to write, to record my words, to be heard, goes back to when I was a kid.

My family is first generation in this country. Mom and dad’s parents came from Poland in the early 1900’s to begin a new life here in America. My dad’s parents, Grandpa Benny and Grandma Mary, opened a business, a tavern and restaurant, on Broadway in Buffalo. They raised three children working that tavern.  My mom’s dad, Grandpa John, worked at the machine plant in Buffalo and her mom, Grandma Josephine, stayed home with seven children.  Work is what they knew and they did it well in order to make a life. Eventually Grandpa John bought a confectionary store and then a garage to support his family.

My mom was a letter writer. She had beautiful penmanship and her voice was very strong. When she wrote, it was just like listening to her speak. I don’t recall her writing stories or poetry, or anything like that, but I do remember the letters. I’m not sure who she wrote them to, but she did write frequently and received many. After her death, the only letters I found were seven years of letters that I wrote to her while I lived in Massachusetts.  She was an avid reader and always had a book around. They were usually hard covered books with beautiful paper bookmarks to mark her place.  She would read to my sister and me frequently. I remember the first real novel that my mom read to me. It was 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea by Jules Verne.  I couldn’t wait for the next exciting chapter to be read. Oh how I wanted to know all about Captain Nemo and his adventure. I would sit at my mom’s feet and hang on every word as she would read.  My dad, on the other hand, worked. He worked all the time at the tavern. It was the family business and that is where he was needed. He read the newspaper daily and thoroughly and meticulously wrote down the proceeds from the day’s take, but rarely wrote anything else. He was more a, I guess you could call him, a jotter. He jotted lots of notes.

Paper was plentiful in my house. Paper and pencils. Just pull out the drawer under the telephone and there was paper: note paper, lined paper, unlined paper, scrap paper. And to write: Ticonderoga #2 pencils plus a few pens were scattered the neatly stacked pieces of paper.  The desk held colored pencils, easers, markers, and more pens and pencils. On my tenth birthday, my mom bought me a diary with a little gold lock and key.  The cover was brightly-colored, soft, and cushy. Each page was lined and the page was neatly printed at the top of the page.