Blowing Bubbles

When I was young, a long long time ago, everyone thought I'd be a writer. My teachers did, my family did, I'm pretty sure my friends did. Certainly I did. I'm not saying the idea that I'd be a good writer was universal, just the writerly expectation was. I must have kept exuding this whole English major vibe for while because once an "educational expert" working for the 2 most pompous neurologists we ever saw (and that is a very competitive category) told me she was sure I could teach my son all about "Shakespeare and books" but we should let the "professionals" take care of the math.
 Guess who taught him math? OK, his father did, but that was only because of a patience issue I had...
As for wiring my novel, I had this idea that I would save up my words for when I was older and had more life experience. (You see I always wanted evidence.)  At that point they would pour forth like diamonds etc etc. So now I have the "life experience" (can I quote myself?), only the diamonds are missing. Everything I thought I knew seemed to float away. And far from diamonds, words that I was sure would cut through anything, I have bubbles that drift, and burst and shine in the sun and blow away in the wind. The stories I wanted to tell when I was younger no longer interest me very much. Mostly I don't believe them.
 We found a letter the other day dated 1916 written by my mother's mother. That was 2 years before Grandma's birth and 3 years before her mother's death from the last of the Spanish influenza epidemic. It was a letter written to Grandma's grandmother. And it had my mother's turns of phrase in it. In fact the kinds of phrases I would have used, my mother would have used... "I had but just found him again..." she says of her fiance (Grandma's father, you are keeping this straight?). Is there a gene for that?
   My mother's family also expected her to be a writer. She said it was because her father pushed her she didn't do it. She never pushed me. That's why I didn't. Only I don't think that's true anymore than I believe her excuse. I believe it's genetic.
Now Grandma is at the house her father built in 1938. And now it doesn't seem to me 1938 was that long after her mother died. What's 19 years? I can see why her step-mother still didn't quite fit in. My (underemployed) daughter is with Grandma. Everyone has always known math is that girl's strong point. I wonder if she'll find the diamonds?