I am connected to two sets of threes. My grandmother – Lida True LeForge was a writer. My mother, Winona Evelyn Ward was a writer. I am third in that line. I am supported by the gift of these two important women.
Grandma was a politically savvy “Gray Panther†who wrote witty poetry. She snarked about youth; our music and our lack of manners (it was the 60s). She complained about how elders were treated and wrote of the foibles of new technology. (Color tv! Commercials!)
Mom was a deep thinker. She wrote of Persephone, of love and joyous things. She wrote a love letter to my older sister, Judith, who only lived two days. She told my younger sister and me stories upon stories. We asked for them over and over. I wish I could remember them now.
I anchor that trio. I have written of poignant memories and loves; pages of slam poetry with arrows aimed toward the political scenes of bygone (current) years. I have written reams of very bad, icky poetry . . . and some better than that.
More importantly, I foster two more writers: going back up the ladder – the second set of three, with me as the anchor – are my oldest daughter, Lessa and her oldest daughter, Peppermist.
Lessa writes lovely things; thought provoking, snarky, sometimes wistful poetry. She writes stories that make me think – make me cry – and help me love. I want to be just like her when I grow up.
Peppermist shares her mother’s snarky wit. She loves beyond LOVE the people who surround her. She writes of teenaged angst with a heart and soul much wiser than her years. She is growing into a lovely young woman and carrying on the family genetic bent of writing.
We have different styles – but we all carry the one thing that rounds out each familial trifecta group: we love. We love hard, we love long, and we love forever.
We write lest we forget.
—————————————————————
The Trifextra Challenge this weekend in the words of the editors: This weekend we are asking for a bit of your memoirs. We want a real account of a period in your life that can be clearly identified by (wait for it) the number three.
These are my words . . . where are yours?
