My mother loved words. She enjoyed writing letters and getting them. She was forever tossing off poems, most of them witty and nonsensical. She was delighted whenever Hallmark cards bought one of her pithy offerings. She loved playing Scrabble and doing crosswords. An avid reader, she made a practice of writing a short analysis of every book she read, every year.

When she reached her 80s, I encouraged her to write a memoir. “But I wouldn’t know how to begin,” she protested. So I suggested she start with a topic, such as “food” or “school” or “boys” or whatever and write about that topic.

She liked that idea and, sure enough, some great little essays began arriving at my house through the mail. I was glad she took the time to reflect upon her life, and she was, too.

My father loved numbers more than words, but he did have some interesting stories to tell. My siblings and I encouraged him to write about his experience working on the Manhattan Project during World War II. Understandably, he’d never talked about those years, because the Manhattan Project was such a secretive undertaking. But he agreed to do so without revealing anything he wasn’t supposed to. A few months later, we received his thoughtful essay entitled, “The War Years.”

A few years ago, I wrote a piece about my life for my two sons, David and Jon. They seemed glad to learn things about me they’d never known.

I wish my grandparents had written up something about their lives. How did my mother’s mother cope when her husband died young and left her with little money and four daughters to raise? (She managed well, apparently, as one of her daughters went to Radcliffe and two of them went to Wellesley.) How did my father’s father enjoy teaching chemistry at a blue-collar New Jersey high school from which few students went on to college. He, himself, had a Harvard degree — he even got to introduce Thomas Edison at a lecture — and many creative hobbies, such as astronomy, stamp collecting and photography (he had his own darkroom).

Now it’s true that many people believe that their own life story is absolutely mesmerizing and worth telling to the world in the form of a bestselling book, even though it probably isn’t. That said, writing about one’s life is a good way to take stock of yourself. As one wag noted, “I learn what I’m thinking about by writing it down.”

And that brings up another thought. Many people say to me, “You should write about….” I usually respond, “Great idea. Why don’t you write about it?” The Times Record welcomes receiving letters and opinion pieces.

Incidentally, it’s not always smart to share what you write. Sometimes when you’re mad about some person or organization, it’s wise to let your angry letter (or email) sit for a while before you send it. Maybe, upon reflection, you’ll tone it down or not even send it.

Some people say they can’t write because, “I’m not a writer.” Well, I would ask “Do you think? Do you have a heart? Do you talk? So, if you have something to say, write it. You might be surprised at the outcome.

David Treadwell, a Brunswick writer, welcomes suggestions for future “Just a Little Old” columns at dtreadw575@aol.com.