Those are the words my boyfriend Doc M said to me as we listened to his mother talk about her life. Two years ago, I recorded an interview with her. Three nights ago, we heard that recording for the first time since I– well, we– made it.
My boyfriend’s mother went into the hospital in early October. She died two weeks later, on October 19.
(This story, in addition to saying something about recording family oral history, is also an explanation why there’s been so little activity on this site recently.)
Over the weekend, Doc M worked on a first draft of the eulogy for his mother’s memorial.
Now, Doc M is an engineer; what comes naturally to him is stuff like reading over my article on analog and digital and then saying, “wait a second. I don’t know if that illustration is correct.” We google the mathematical algorithm for digitizing, and he– right then and there– jots it down, and starts working through the math. Just like that! I’m amazed. But writing? No, that’s what I do. He’s often said, “I’m not a writer.”
But he is a son, and there’s a eulogy that must be written.