I decided to read my great grandmother’s diary.
I remember her diaries, stacked together on the side of a desk with a drop down front, turning it into a little writing area. I loved turning the funny looking iron key in the tiny brass keyhole and letting the front drop down, examining the wooden drawer for pencils, the rectangle slots for mail and paper.
“Careful of your fingers” she would warn.
I don’t remember ever pinching my fingers, but it seems that the drop down front crashed on to the top of my head once or twice.
The diaries were small, just four inches wide and five inches tall. She had different colors, they were all faded. Brown, red, black, blue. The edges wore a white frayed binding, from wear, little strings hanging where they had frayed.
Only one diary remained. She had burned them all before she died. Or maybe it was before she was taken off to live in the convalescent hospital, because I think she was there for a while.
Why was this one rescued? I don’t know, but I’m glad to have it because it covers the year I was born.
Five year diary, each page dedicated to the same day of the year for five years. So that on the top is printed “January 12”. Each rectangle has the 1 and the 9 printed in, her cramped, wobbly writing has filled in the 54 in the top one inch rectangle, 55 below it, down to the last section on the page with 58 following the 1 and 9.
I found this day to read first.
It is the day I was born.
Sun. Raining. Roger + family came in evening. Roberta went to hospital and her baby was burn at 4 a.m. Charlotte Robt + Beccy were here this a.m.
My great grandmother is careful. Each year she uses a different color of ink. It is easy to see where June 5, 1956 stops and June 5, 1957 starts. 1958 is written in red.
She misspells my sister's name.
There is not an empty day in the whole book. 365 times five. One thousand eight hundred twenty five days of her life in this tiny book.
She must have cheated at least once. Forgot the diary that day, had a terrible headache, slept in, stayed out late, dropped into bed without brushing her teeth and filling in the diary, so that on the following night she faced two blank rectangles.
In fact, maybe there was a whole week she forgot, coming upon her diary one sunny afternoon as she dusts her dressing table.
“My diary! There it is. I’m so far behind, let me just sit here and fill in the week. Let’s see, last Sunday? What was the weather like that day? Sunny, I’m sure it was sunny because I cut those roses and put them in that vase in the breakfast nook. Now what about Monday?”
I turn back to January 1,1954 and start at the beginning. The entries are boring, hard to read. She never varies, abbreviated day of the week, weather, who visited that day, lists of gifts received by unknown people - Emma got a gown for her birthday. Weekdays are followed by a summary of mail delivered that day, or just a brief no mail.
She never talks of emotions. No frustration, elation, suspicion. No impatience or curiosity. No jealousy, no joy, no sorrow.
Somewhere during the five years (I’d have to go back and read all those eight thousand something days to know just when - that’s never going to happen.) she begins to add Leg hurt today or Cdn’t sleep - leg pain.
She had leg pain on six thousand seven hundred and twenty-eight of those days.
She was up at night, like I am now, rubbing my knee, filling a bag with ice, stretching to relieve the pain.
She couldn’t jump on her lap top and check her email, post something on Facebook, Google “leg pain”. She couldn’t type a story about a spirit who wrote something boring every day and burned all diaries accept for this one, leaving a puzzling legacy for the place she lives on, the mind of the one who writes.
The one who merited an extra line, squeezed in at the top of the page in the tiny space above the date.
Roberta’s baby born.
