Hi, I'm KT (aka Donna) and so glad to meet you here

We're asked to introduce ourselves. And, since I like to tell stories, I'll start with how that came about.

According to my mom, the women in our family have descended from a long line of storytellers. She grew up in a large, multi-generation family where stories from the old country abounded. Yet I didn't know that she meant I'd be one of the family's fabulists, until after my brother's sudden death, and again some years later when my dad, who'd lived a good long life, became ill and passed away.

Mom was more than depressed about our brother, and I had been calling her almost daily. I noticed that, if I encouraged her to talk out her sorrow, her natural gift to tell stories would break through to lift us both.

Mom always had this talent, at least since I was a child.

According to my older cousin and his mom, she told tales since she was a girl. But while growing up, I just thought that this was what moms do. Just as we kids (my cousins lived next door) would all sit in a circle on the floor around my aunt who sang and played piano, we also sat with Mom who told us her tales.

Aunt played on her old upright, and taught us to sing along to what she called 'Americana.' Tunes like Yankee Doodle Went to Town, The Boatman's Dance, I Bought Me a Cat, and Old Tom Dooley. Today, I'd never teach that last one to a child. But we just loved Aunt's lively playing, and singing along with her.

Mom mostly played games with us. During the fun she'd tell us stories from her childhood, living with a large family in a big house with a large arbor out back. Cousins, aunts, uncles all nearby. And a big scary graveyard and church building next door that cast shadows on her window shade at night. One looked like a cat with an arched back, causing her to scream and run in panic downstairs to her parents or grandmother's room. The wind did its part, too; it would creak and howl through the house cracks.

One night, she heard what she swore was a ghost playing on the grand piano downstairs.

She was mildly comforted when Granddad showed her the 'ghost.' It was her grandmother's cat, walking along the keys. He then made sure to cover them at night before grannie's kitty would make his nightly rounds and pace across the piano.

But when my brother died, nothing consoled her. I told her stories that she didn't know about him from our growing up years. Funny ones, good ones. Finally she began to reminisce herself. I learned more about him than I knew. She listened to some of the otherworldly things I saw and heard just before he died. And encouraged me to write about that.

Same when Dad was in critical care. We waited in the empty room after they wheeled him out on his bed for a surgery. That's when I told her something I'd never told another except those who needed to know. I figured by then it was unclassified but, just to be on the safe side, I left out those bits. Just the story around it with all the suspense. She listened and before we knew it was almost time for Dad to return from surgery. Sure enough, we heard the bed rolling back into the intensive care unit.

I had just finished, and she paused so long I thought I'd bombed.

But finally she said, "Of all my children you've lead the most interesting life. Promise me you'll write about it." So I did. I tucked it away afterward, until I researched and found it was unclassified. And more stories came, again, all tucked on a hard drive and miraculously surviving crashed pcs and laptops. Now they sit on the cloud, some released under pseudonym.

She needed emotional support and, as we lived a distance from each other, it had to be by phone. I'd used all my miles and money, flying back and forth across the country - first West to East and West again during Dad's illness. East again for his funeral down South. Then up North for his burial, to escort my old uncle, and back South. Then West. That flight North, though, was one story I'll never forget. It will wait for another day.

So I began, as I had before, to check in with her daily. We decided to record her stories. I have so many that I'll need to have them transcribed for my family to enjoy.

How could I ever hold a candle to that Light?

She's such a wonderful person, whose heart is full of love and imagination. I'm glad she encouraged me. Had, in fact, since I was a child. Only it took those two family tragedies - losing our brother and then our father - to loosen my hesitation to share. Beginning on a new and (to me) wonderful place I'd found on the web back then, called Blogspot. I showed the new platform to all my work friends. I thought they'd be thrilled; they just rolled eyes.

Imagine that.

So I kept my screen hidden from view and plunked away during lunch and other breaks. Little did I know what tech would arrive one day to help we storytellers feed ourselves. (Thank you Steemit!)

My next feature is about a very special friend I'd rescued once.

He was so large and round, so orange and wonderful, we called him Pumpkin. Not very original, yet he seemed not to mind. The next story, then, is dedicated to Pumpkin. It's about something that threatened our little fur-family. You'll note that I've changed his name (and that of the other pets) to protect the innocent. Stay tuned.