Welcome to Calling in "The Family," a blog dedicated to sharing insights, reflections, and stories while I work on my memoir. My memoir centers around my father's death, and this blog serves as an outlet for essays that promote the book and to connect with readers.
Researching my family for my memoir has been a labor of love. I joined Ancestry.com and Newspapers.com. I have sent many emails to entities like the Clinton Public Library, the Vermillion County Clerk, and the Indiana Health Department. I Googled a lot. And I interviewed my family members, including my mom, siblings, cousins, and my aunt.
Since I started working on my memoir, I have realized how beneficial it would have been to have jotted down some words in a diary throughout my life. Plus, if I’m ever murdered, a diary might help solve my case. At least it does on Dateline.
One thing I have learned while working on my memoir is that I can’t count on my memory. To make the stories I write as accurate as possible, I am researching my memories. That process has brought me both satisfaction and disappointment.
I’m amazed that when I mention my family was involved in the Daisy BB Gun National Championships (aka BB gun shoots), very few people have even heard of them.
The group text came early in the morning before my 65th birthday, while I was in Cancun celebrating my eligibility for Medicare.
For over a year now, I have been working on a memoir of my childhood, which was admittedly a long time ago and quite a number of years before the internet. Even so, you can find some really long-ago facts on this internet thing. And even more long-ago untruths.
This is one of several watercolors I did in 2025 of my childhood home that is featured in the memoir.
And this post.
Dad always had an American flag hanging on the porch.
In 2003, I boarded the Amtrak to head home to West Virginia just a few hours after my dad’s funeral. It was on that train ride that I decided to write about the experience. My mom and my six siblings were on my mind after spending 12 days in Indiana with them, waiting and watching Dad slip away.
It was the best 12 days I could remember.
That may sound weird, but only if you don’t know my family.
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