Precious and Painful

As anyone following this blog knows, one of its key components is my mother's stories. This morning I have spent a fair amount of time going through the stories she typed - I still have her journals to complete. From the ones that she typed or handwrote and placed in her blue folder,  I have transcribed six, plus another from one of her many journals. I still have twenty to go, just from the ones she compiled in this folder. I have decided on the one I will transcribe next - it doesn't have a title - so I think I'll call it Train Number 106, maybe just 106.

As I sorted through the stories, some of the things that I hoped would be in there were - Granddaddy's Lost Treasure, Robert Fulton and the Diamond Ring, Granddaddy's stories of those durn little Chickasaws that stayed on the farm and caused mischief, and even one about our dog, Katy.

Suddenly, I was overcome with grief. While I am blessed to have these stories in writing, I will never hear her tell them again - not in person. I do have a video of her telling three. So while this labor of love is absolutely a joy for me in most ways, it also plunges me into the depths of despair.

Mama, you are forever missed and forever loved.