As my ten-years younger sister was sorting through several boxes of family memorabilia, she found four 2.34 x 4.25 inch black books with gold gilded page edges my Dad had written in. The first book was stamped 1989, and contained entries for 1989 and 1990, and then books for 1991, 1992, and 1993.
My sudden fantasy was that I wasn’t the only one in the family who had written stuff down about my life. What feelings did my father have about events in his life? What did they mean to him? So I opened up dad’s little black books, hoping to learn how he felt about people, what interior feelings he had.
I guess I shouldn’t have been too surprised, but leafing through dad’s pages written dutifully years ago, I saw that the entries showed what he did and what happened, but without emotion or takeaways. This is entirely in character for my dad, who kept his emotions close, perhaps even guarding them from his own conscious awareness. Our family, like many families of that time, lacked emotional acuity. For the most part, we did not name our feelings. Honor our feelings. Pay attention to our feelings.
It’s not that we didn’t have feelings. I remember tears running down Mom’s beautiful face each time us siblings left their farmhouse after paying them a visit. I’m embarrassed to admit it now, but we sometimes made fun of her tears. I sensed she was bewildered about this welling of emotion as well.
Here’s one of Dad’s first entries, dated March 16, 1989, the day before Mom’s birthday: “To lunch with Bud’s at Stones and home afterward.” This entry brought back memories for me. I remembered how much my dad loved the famous lemon meringue pie at Stones, and I also remembered that Bud got very sick the next year and ended up in the hospital. I wonder what they talked about? How was Bud feeling? Would they have talked about it if he wasn’t feeling well?
Here’s Dad’s entry on the next year March 16, 1990: “Hair cut then to Marshalltown for car wash and a dozen roses for Leora’s birthday.” This entry brought to mind how my mom always told people she wanted flowers while she was living and not after she died! I wonder if my dad was thinking about this when he bought them. Did it bring him joy?
I’ve spent time with these books and I treasure Dad’s faithfulness in leaving us a partial record of his life. I am curious what other members of the family will discover when I share these books. And this makes me wonder what I will do with the plastic tubs filled with my journals?
What do you do with your old journals? Please let me know your plans.
IMAGE: Kitchen windowsill with shadows.
