July 3rd – The Story- The Book- Chris Ritchey
Every third of the month finds me writing your story and trying , as so many mothers try to do, keeping your life from just becoming another HYPHEN in between- 1980- 2009.
We are all forgotten eventually until some researcher of some far-flung future family descendent will
“look us up” . Most will find government documents for their information source. Will there be a version of the internet in those distant future years I don’t know? Most of us have not done anything “notable” to be remembered”.
I am often told , “Everyone has a story” and they are right. Every living thing or being on this planet has a story – even the tiny butterfly I watched after the storm a few days ago . Winds and a deluge of rain whipped the trees into a frenzied dance , newly formed apples were ripped from the branches and pelted down onto the fragile blossoms of summer flowers, battering them into submission. The storm went as quickly and as destructively as it came.
I looked out on the mess that was the front garden , the French Hydrangea ( which everyone despises but me ) was holding more than the blossoms – minutes after the storm a Red Admiral Butterfly was supping from the rain drops left on the leaves. I wondered how this tiny delicate creature could be slaking its thirst, seemingly unscathed , moments after such a turmoil of nature. I wondered at the “story” of the butterfly because he/she too had one. Our stories remain untold unless someone “tells ” it .
For many months I have tried to start “the book” to tell your story . I couldn’t find a place to begin – nothing seemed to work as a beginning. Then, thanks to a facebook post from a writer, I followed a link. The writer used a quote- an epiphany of sorts – so I have begun the book- because you are writing/illustrating this book.
NO LIMITS By Loraine Ritchey
“Nothing should be hidden or untouchable, if it is your truth and you stand behind it – no one should be able to silence you “
Brave words from my son, Christopher, on a fall day, his 4th year at Cleveland Institute of Art. I had met him for a meal in Tremont, Ohio. He was so very angry, one of his projects had met with resistance and indeed censorship. His anger and frustration spilled out:
Why were his thoughts not being accepted in a very community that accepts so much more than the general population? Why would he be censored in the very open environment of an art college where nothing it seemed was untouchable?
I will tell your story Chris– as hard as it is to write the whole of it ….. I will .. and I love you I so miss the in between , because that is all I have of you ………
Entry filed under: Chris Ritchey, death, grief, Love, men of substance, Mothers, Third, writers and writing. Tags: Chris Ritchey, Christopher D. Ritchey, christopher ritchey lorain, death, grief, history, mothers and sons, The Arts, The book, Truth.