When I started writing these stories five years ago, I had no idea I’d be doing it this long. Putting words to random thoughts that may or may not have any lasting value can be intimidating. I don’t always have something to say. But if I work at it for a while, if I let the ideas simmer like a pot of beans on low heat, the brain cells soften, and the words find their way.

There are times when I question why I do this. The world is full of people who write brilliantly. It’s not likely that I can say anything that hasn’t already been said before. I’m not on a quest for recognition. I am certainly no Mark Twain.

When I spoke at my high school reunion, my good friend Donna did the introduction. She called me a “published author.” That hit me funny because I had never thought of myself as such. Self-publishing is not like being a real author with a writing contract and a literary agent from a big publishing house. What I do is not found on the shelf at Barnes and Noble.

Still, I write. And here’s why.

I’m standing in line to buy ice cream. A peach farm in Pike County, Georgia. I wrote about this place a couple of weeks ago. Just another story because it was time to write again.

That story made the rounds. Because of a friend who reads my stuff, God bless her, the story made it into the hands of the lady who runs the farm with her family. Their family name is on the sign, their sweat is in the ground. She’s an Atlanta girl married to farming who loves what she does.

She read the story and evidently got goosebumps. She shared that story with anyone who would listen because, somehow, she was reminded of everything she loves about farm life and the choices that got her there.

Anyway, I’m standing in line when Marion says, “Get me a small cup of strawberry, please. I’ll be right back.”

This is not unusual for her. Her mind races at speeds I cannot comprehend. I know that she cannot be still for more than a minute without finding something to do, so I figure she’s been lured away. I am left to play second fiddle alone.

I’m gawking at the T-shirts on the table leading up to the little window where teenage girls are handing out cups and cones of frozen peach and strawberry delicacies. I’m debating which flavor I want.

Marion returns and gets my attention. “There’s somebody you need to meet.”

She drags me over to the side. I’m confused because I’m giving up my place in line. It’s longer now than when I walked up, and I really don’t want to have to start over.

“This is Kathy,” she says, “the lady you wrote about.

Kathy is very excited.

“I loved your story.” She blurts out the words with a huge smile.

She reached out her hand, but I’m a hugger. We stretched across the table between us and leaned into an embrace like we were family. In just a few minutes we uncovered all the friends we have in common, a mystery which before was hidden to both of us. We talked about peaches and farm life, and we laughed about our small world.

“I’m gonna get you both some ice cream,” she says. “On me.”

The conversation lasted longer than the ice cream.

When we got back to the truck, Marion said, “That was incredible.”

“Yea. That was pretty amazing.”

“See there,” she said. “You touch people’s lives when you write.”

That settled in on me because I was the one who was touched by Kathy’s kindness. I never know what to expect when I write about total strangers. I hardly ever know whether that person even sees the story, much less reads it. I put it out there, and most of the time that’s the end of it.

Today was different. Plus, the free ice cream wasn’t bad, either.

The day moved on. We were headed off to a family picnic of sorts at High Falls State Park. The only reason we had stopped was to buy peaches to share with my cousins.

We gathered under picnic shelter #4 within sight of the falls. The air was thick. Two box fans at either end of the pavilion struggled to move a much needed breeze. The hotdogs with chili and onions were perfect.

Marion dove headfirst into the Chappell pool. I am working my way among the first, second, and third cousins once removed from somewhere down the family line. Most of us have a lot of miles on us and a lot of snow on the roof.

Korie is my cousin’s great-grandchild. She’s eight, and our hope for the future. I’m sitting across the table from her.

“Your grandpa is my second cousin.”

I’m trying to connect the dots for her. As I listen to my own words, I feel old and wonder what she’s thinking about his guy whom she’s never met. She smiles without speaking and takes another bite of her hotdog.

The humidity is drenching us. I’m sitting at one of the tables trying not to get peach juice all down my shirt. My cousin, Bobby, takes a seat across from me. We’ve been chatting off and on all afternoon, mostly small talk. Catching up. He shifted gears.

“When I read your stories,” he says, “it makes me realize how different it was to grow up with our dads.”

“How so?” I asked.

And for the next little while we talked about the men who were brothers from another time in our lives. We shared the stories that are common knowledge and some that are kept within the family circle.

Bobby is somewhere close to fifteen years older than I am, which means that he is among the last living keepers of the family stories that predate my arrival in this world. He has memories that I don’t have. And somehow, my stories stirred him to share his.

This is the reason I write.

I suppose I should find some satisfaction in having a couple of books in print. I suppose I could find some pleasure in writing for the sake of writing. But the truth is, my greatest motivation is in knowing that every now and then a story connects with someone out there. Writing allows me to make friends out of strangers. I send out words and they bring back to me the stories of others that I cherish as much as my own.

My stories are kind of like Max, who used to run away to parts unknown. I had no idea where he’d gotten off to. But he’d find total strangers, then I’d get a phone call. I’d go to pick him up and by that chance I’d meet new people.

On the way home from High Falls, Marion says to me, “There’s hardly a day goes by that I don’t meet good people.”

That’s what keeps me going, I guess. In a world that is sometimes dark and chaotic, good folks are everywhere.

My writing helps me find them.