I’ve kept one letter from my cousin Phyllis. She mailed it to me in May 2016, shortly after reading From Fertile Ground, my first book.

Today would have been Phyllis’ seventy-ninth birthday. (She died in March.) So, this afternoon I found and pulled her letter from a large blue plastic container. It houses cherished family memorabilia, my first manuscript, and related items from 2016, when I published my book.

Phyllis was a reading teacher and tutor, a lifelong educator. Though we were nearly ten years apart in age, we were close in our early and late years.

But, back in 2016, Phyllis and I seldom corresponded. We traded holiday and birthday greetings. Nothing more. Receiving an unceremonious letter sent from her home in Missouri to mine in Illinois felt like a rare treat.

I recall opening the typewritten letter with anticipation. I soon discovered it was a message of congratulations and literary encouragement.

“Your book is a skillful blending of the lives of three distinct individuals, who are bound by heritage as well as the love of the written word in three genres: diary, letters, and book,” she noted.

She continued on. “Your book is your catharsis; your identity; your emotional statement in coming to terms with yourself and your life journey in reaching your epiphany … confident, calm, coherent in realizing all of us must ultimately accept who we are, before one can extend that message to others.”

And then, in closing. “Please remember, you are a composite of two proud families: Ferrell and Johnson. Perhaps, your next book will highlight the Johnson clan … You are a product of fertile ground with many chapters yet to be written and lived!”

Then, she typed and signed her name with love in blue ink. It stretched in cursive diagonally across the page.

***

We all need encouragement. Phyllis’ message to me–a fledgling author–was just the incentive I needed a decade ago to write my next book, Tales of a Rollercoaster Operator. It is, more or less, a nostalgic ride through the 1960s and 70s and, most certainly, a love letter to the deceased members of my Johnson family.

In that spirit, on Phyllis’ birthday it is fitting that I acknowledge her literary nudge and also remind myself of something. What my cousin gave me in a lasting letter is what I give my memoir workshop participants whenever I choose to teach another class. I give them encouragement.