After finding my grandmother’s story, I gathered up the papers and gingerly put them in a box. I knew I needed to keep them safe, but other than that…heck, I’d figure out what to do with them another time. (I am a born and raised, procrastinator).
I was anxious to read my grandmother’s words, but I didn’t plunge right in. Besides my proclivity for putting things off, I feared that handling the very brittle and time-yellowed pages would cause them to crumble away to nothing. They’d been neglected for many decades, just a stack of old papers stuffed in the bottom drawer of my mother’s desk, under a bunch of other stuff…