There once was a man, 89 years old, body failing, hands crimped and eyes seeing less of the world each day. But that man would sit in his rocking chair, quiet and lonely, with nothing to do except write his thoughts. His children have grown, and his grandchildren have grown, so with no one to talk to, his pen and paper were his family opposite of visiting days. For hours on end, he would ponder his life; marriage, children, or what the world looked like to him back when. This man's life filled with sorrowful stories, family life as a boy, war stories of his time in service; happy stories of his parent’s dedication to family and hard work. No matter what the content, as he wrote about his life, sitting in his chair, you could always see the joy. It was not so much joy for the story that he was telling, it was not because
he lived a grand life, in fact, and his life was quite difficult. Yet it was the joy for the life he was leaving behind, knowing that all his words, scribbled and hard to read at times, would one day become a pillar of family knowledge. This man was a quiet man, who only spoke when he felt it important, or if he was telling one of his childhood tales to one of his grandchildren and eventually great-grandchildren. This elderly man always inspired to one day to be a writer. His dream was to see his words taken from his notebooks, and highlighted in a storybook of his life. He would keep track of current events, top news stories, and even look to his past to write and compare the future. He had many opinion columns published in editorials, of local news, and it would always astound the journalists that this man only had a sixth grade education. He always said that reading and writing was a way to success, and that a well-written person could achieve anything when they used words of impression. He taught everyone around him that if you can write your memories, your opinions, you will always remain sharp minded, and conscious of what life has given you. Writin
g made him happy, despite the content of what he was writing, he always remembered. He died two years ago, with all his thoughts now quietly sitting on paper. You are never too old to become a writer, never! As you grow old, you see and feel life’s adventures, differently and any seasoned writer will tell you, that the work of a younger person is far comparable to the wisdom of a well versed older person.
he lived a grand life, in fact, and his life was quite difficult. Yet it was the joy for the life he was leaving behind, knowing that all his words, scribbled and hard to read at times, would one day become a pillar of family knowledge. This man was a quiet man, who only spoke when he felt it important, or if he was telling one of his childhood tales to one of his grandchildren and eventually great-grandchildren. This elderly man always inspired to one day to be a writer. His dream was to see his words taken from his notebooks, and highlighted in a storybook of his life. He would keep track of current events, top news stories, and even look to his past to write and compare the future. He had many opinion columns published in editorials, of local news, and it would always astound the journalists that this man only had a sixth grade education. He always said that reading and writing was a way to success, and that a well-written person could achieve anything when they used words of impression. He taught everyone around him that if you can write your memories, your opinions, you will always remain sharp minded, and conscious of what life has given you. Writin
g made him happy, despite the content of what he was writing, he always remembered. He died two years ago, with all his thoughts now quietly sitting on paper. You are never too old to become a writer, never! As you grow old, you see and feel life’s adventures, differently and any seasoned writer will tell you, that the work of a younger person is far comparable to the wisdom of a well versed older person.
