Argh, you hit a soft spot in me. I am the fourth generation of women in my family to keep a daily journal. Each generation before me grew old, stopped writing and began reading their journals. My grandmothers read their life stories, then tore the pages in pieces and threw them away. When my grandmother’s turn came, I asked her why?
Grama explained that every day of her life she had written the truth in her journal. Things change she said, and she did not want her family thinking that her thoughts or feelings on just one day of her life were any more than that. It was just how she felt that day. She reminded me of her response to something I’d done — and asked if I thought she still felt that way? No, of course not. Grama told me she was much more disappointed in me than she’d let on — and asked, if I really wanted to know everything my actions had caused her to think and feel that day? No! I did not! Well then, she said, picked up some journal pages and tore them up.
After my mother died, her brother called and asked if I had found his mother’s journal among my mother’s things. I was furious with both my mother and her brother. My mother should have told her brother what happened to those journals. And my uncle should have asked his sister. Now Mama was gone and he was asking me!
I told my uncle exactly what I just told you — and he started crying. My uncle is a man of science, possessed by self-discipline, self-control and reason. Hearing that man cry turned me inside out. Three generations of women taking their life stories to the grave was enough.
Last year, I readied for retirement and downsized like a champ (move over Marie Kondo, I am the downsizing queen). In January, my family loaded my things in a moving truck. As the heavy boxes of journal pages were being loaded, my kids went all practical on me. Mom, if you’re going to throw these away, why are we lugging them all the way to Kentucky? Because I am not throwing them away, I barked back — to their wide-eyed wonder, then nervous giggles and finally, “Mom, do you mean you’re going to let us read them?” Not exactly, I replied, I am going to sort out my life story first. You won’t get my daily chatter, but I am leaving you my life story. Suffice to say, my family could not get that truck loaded fast enough. Mama had work to do. Like each generation before them, they wanted to read the pages they’d watched being written and never been allowed to read — not even one word.
In my little house here in Kentucky, I looked at all those boxes piled up in my tiny studio and felt so overwhelmed, I closed the door. 3 months later, I finally went back in that room. Reading those journal pages is like reading a book. I knew the story by heart. But rediscovering all the events and details and people was disconcerting. If I had not lived those pages, if I had not written every word myself, I swear I would not have believed even half that story was true. No wonder my grandmothers had torn up their journal pages. I was just like them; we’d led un-believable lives. But our stories were true. I did all that, I knew all those people, I went to all those places, I did all that work and so had my grandmothers.
And so, I am neck deep in a work of art. This journal of mine has a life of its own and is turning into a graphic book, cross fertilized with essays, photo album, scrapbook. I can’t possibly live long enough to complete the artwork required.
A couple weeks ago, I finally opened the boxes with my slides from 1984/85 when I backpacked through Asia. Holy cow, I have thousands of slides of places and people and events long gone from this earth. Some of these photos are breathtaking. They need to be digitized, but my little digitizer will take hundreds of hours’ time. I looked up digitizing services and cannot afford it.
And then, your message arrives with an offer of help. Leaving this work, so I can get a job necessary to earn money to do this work is nuts. I hesitate to post this comment as a story. I have a really good piece in my journal and condensed it into a comment related to this author’s essay. I would much rather post the story. I saw the Medium competition, but did not know how to enter, so I didn’t.
While the weather is still good, this old woodworker is busy helping my kids restore their old house. Come winter, I will have more time to work on this. May I call on you in the future, say a couple months? If so, I would be grateful for any help you can give me. Either way, I am grateful for the time you have already given me. My journal will tell you that it is people like you, who offer a helping hand, that change lives.
