For sure, all my various writer’s notebooks from my first ‘Dear Diary’ to the notebook I wrote this in do. I don’t have a lot of concrete objects. My mother’s china tells of the longing I have to have been able to know her. My grandfather’s little painted dishes from Czechoslovakia tell of my heritage.
Pictures from birth to present tell of the love I have for my children. My saddle speaks the story of all the horses I’ve groomed and ridden down mountain trails. My MM ZA tells the story of my love affair with antique tractors and countless drives over miles of country roads, one-way disc plowing, raking hay and pulling the binder.
The ring on my finger whispers the story of love long searched for and of hope for long lives together. The novels on my shelves tell the story of my inner mind’s adventures. My guitar tells the story of my love of music and it holds the connection I’ve always had for John Denver, it holds all those evening camp fires singing at horse camp, Sunday morning worship at the vesper site, and the songs sung by my heart.