Of Limited Interest...

I finally did it Friday night.

I was sitting in my den, when I suddenly popped up, went upstairs to my bedroom, and reached under my bed. There it was, where it had been waiting silently for nine years. A cardboard box, which I carried downstairs with me.

The first thing I saw when I opened the box was a stationery box with a note attached that read "Pictures of Bill when he was young (or little)". Next, an old autograph book whose first signatures were dated March 10, 1944. A leather folder displaying, when opened, a diploma from Reinbeck High School in Iowa dated 1949. And, finally, what I had been seeking. Dozens of diaries from 1962 through 1999. The 1999 diary is empty.

The last entry in the 1998 volume is dated Sunday, October 25. It reads "Time changed 2:00 a.m. Up 5:30 new time." My mother died a few hours later at church.

My mother kept diaries from January 6, 1962 until that morning in October, 1998. Her diaries were written for practical purposes, and provide a chronicle of the events of her days. Few feelings are expressed, if any, and you have to read between the lines to discern her emotions. She would often refer back to her diaries to confirm that the roof was replaced on this date, the taxes were paid on that date, the weather was sunny and warm or snowy and windy.

With one exception, I've never looked at her diaries. I kept them with the intention of looking through them one day, and was compelled to do so Friday night. It seems like a nice project now that the weather is turning chilly and the days darken earlier. This could keep me busy for a while.

As of this writing, I've only read through February 20, 1962. My mother stopped working when I was born in 1959, and my dad was a US Navy diver. My mother's first diary was presented to her on January 6, 1962, when her parents arrived for an extended stay with my mother while my dad was out of the country with the Navy. My grandmother kept a daily diary until her death also, and I guess she encouraged my mother to do the same.

It has been an interesting experience reading the first diary. My mother seems unsure of what to write initially, but gradually gets into the rhythm of writing each day. It is simply a record of the day-to-day life of an average American housewife. To me, it is quite interesting, but would be fairly dull reading for anyone else. I treasure these diaries.

What impresses me so far is how damned industrious my mother is. I've only read a month and a half of diary entries and ten pies have been baked, along with an assortment of cookies, cakes, puddings, cinnamon rolls, and butter horns. My mother and grandmother are cutting and sewing clothing from patterns, and making curtains and bedspreads nearly every day. They work in the yard, they apply cement to the walls in the garage and then paint them, they wax the furniture and the kitchen appliances.

I don't know what in the hell my grandfather does. He seems to escape the house a lot. He's always coming home from the airport. Since my grandparents drove from Iowa to Virginia, he isn't there changing airline reservations. These are the days when airports have observation decks, and he doesn't see many airplanes over his Iowa farm. Plus, it must be good to get away from those busy women.

All those pies and baked goods are needed because friends and neighbors drop in for coffee all the time. They bring vegetables from their gardens, or a kitchen towel set with matching apron for my mom. They sit and visit, and I play with their children. One neighbor brings an evergreen and four azaleas for the yard. In the evening we watch television while my mom and grandmother sew.

We go places, too. We go to the fabric store and the dime store. We visit friends, and run errands. We go for rides in the country. I get bored on one long ride and start playing with my eyeballs, turn my eyelids wrongside-in so my lashes are scraping my eyes, and scream like a banshee. Thank goodness my folks bring coffee and nut bread along on the ride, because they need a break after they get my eyes fixed.

Many letters are written and received. Real letters, delivered by our postman. Mom writes Dad every couple of days, and he writes back almost as frequently. Letters fly back and forth between friends and family. There's no zip-code. Urgent news is sent airmail, or "par avion." Long-distance calls are expensive, and for emergencies only.

There's one black & white TV and a record player (High-Fidelity!). There's no cable or satellite service; we get three local channels. Going to the movies is a rare treat. We have one car. Dining out is a luxury. Entertainment is mostly spending time with friends; we take date-nut bread to the Dowlings when Fred comes home to convelesce following a heart attack (we take him a pair of pyjamas, too).

My mother and grandmother are trying to potty-train me. No wonder. My mom spends a lot of time washing dirty diapers. This potty-training mission is a series of skirmishes; some won, some lost, but Mom & Grandma are like the Allied Forces - they have the might, they have the fight, and they know they are right.

As I struggle with my potty-chair, my mom is getting the house ready for my dad's return. I don't know when that will be. Maybe we can go to the pier at the Navy Base to see him wave at us from the deck when his ship comes home again.

For anyone interested, you can take a peek at Mom's 1962 diary. Spelling, grammar, and syntax are as written in the original, and reflect my mother's Germanic heritage. "Lunch" and "Dinner" refer to the mid-day meal. "Supper" is the evening meal. "Breakfast" happens early, and if you sleep late, you miss it. A.M. means morning, and P.M. means afternoon. Evening means we're probably home, and if you drop in we'll serve you pie and coffee, and I'll show you my new potty chair. Click here if you want to visit us, but remember, my mother doesn't write this for entertainment purposes.