Memoirs of a Woman From Bialystok

My mother began to write her memoirs at the age of eighty six. It all began when I told her about Grandma Moses' painting career and challenged her to do likewise. Never one to pass up a challenge, but not being able to paint, she decided to try her hand at writing. And so, every day, for a period of almost two years, after her household chores were completed (this included cooking for her family, house cleaning and gardening), she would set aside an hour or two for her writing. I can see her now so clearly, sitting at the kitchen table, bent over her white-lined paper, writing away in her round, even, measured handwriting, and proudly showing me each neatly written page, and then with her ever-ready humor, looking up at me, her face broadening into a grin, a twinkle in her light blue eyes, and laughing: "I am now indeed a writer." And as she kept at her writing and finally finished the book, I never ceased to marvel at her self-discipline, her singleness of purpose, her drive.