Every boy (or man, for that matter) should know not to try sneaking to read a girl's (or a woman's) diary. A diary is a private, secret repository for a female's most intimate thoughts, hopes, dreams--or fears and disappointments.
Yet, every boy (or man) at some point in his life is sorely tempted to sneak a peak into that symbol of the feminine mystique. I was no exception, but when I succumbed to the temptation, I rationalized to justify my transgression, my commission of the [gasp!] unpardonable sin.
On Christmas Day, 1969, I gave my mother a one-year diary. Well, I thought at the time that it was a diary. It was actually an appointment book. But it was a perfectly logical gift in my boyish thinking. Although I had never known my mother to keep a diary or a journal, I thought she should. That proved to be almost as wise as my thinking when I gave my new wife that brush-and-comb set for her birthday and the vacuum cleaner at our first Christmas as man and wife. They were all logical, practical gifts to be loved--or so I thought.
Mother thanked me, of course, and said it was just what she had always wanted. But I seldom saw her writing in it. If she did, it was only a few lines. Then she would return it to its home in the kitchen cabinet above the dishwasher, sandwiched between Daddy's work invoices and the flour bin.
One rainy day several months later, when Mother and Daddy were shopping in downtown Knoxville and I was left to fend for myself, I rummaged around for some way to entertain myself, and I spied her diary. Curiosity got the better of me and, ignoring my better judgment, I surrendered to the temptation, pulled her diary from its hiding place, and opened its pages, eager to see the titillating secrets they might reveal.
I was summarily disappointed. Instead of titillating tidbits, I found sterile summaries of weather conditions, job sites where Daddy had gone to work (or not, depending on the weather conditions), shopping forays, and gardening statistics. How boring! I thought. I quickly returned the volume to its flour-dusted home and looked for something more interesting to pursue.
Fast forward to 1982 and then farther forward to 1996, after both Mother and Daddy had passed. I inherited, among other ephemera, that diary. It was now mine, and my historical bent prevented my discarding it as mere trash. It had lost the mystique of forbidden fruit. I was free to not only sneak a peek but to really delve into its full contents. Instead, I packed it into a box and promptly forgot about it.
Several days ago, however, I stumbled across it while looking for an old photo. Sidetracked from my original task, I sat down and began reading it from the first page. The first thing I noticed was that although it was made for only one year's entries, with each day named and dated for 1970, Mother had made such brief entries that she was able to get three years' entries on each day's page, simply writing in the new day of the week. Occasionally, at the top of a page, she had made notations of a friend's birthday or anniversary or death or the birth of a child, complete with the newborn's weight, length, and time of birth.
On almost every entry, she recorded, "Ralph worked on the [name of builder for whom Daddy had been laying brick] job" and often indicated in which subdivision (e.g., Halbrook or Bonta Vista) or county, if beyond Knox. She usually noted the weather conditions. It seems that if it was rainy or too cold for Daddy to work (the mortar could freeze), she and Daddy went shopping.
Daddy could shop all day, looking at everything--literally everything! I hated shopping with him. I still prefer to know specifically what I want, go right to it, pay for it, and get out. Daddy had to examine everything.
Throughout the diary, the dominant themes were consistent: Daddy's work, the weather, church attendance, and gardening (what they had planted and how much of each crop they harvested, preserved, or gave away).
Mother sometimes also recorded unusual things, some of them humorous. For example, there was the time she invited several friends to a quilting bee and asked each of them to bring a dish for their luncheon. They all brought desserts. And the time they had their high school class reunion (Halls High Class of 1946) and every lady brought meat loaf.
Interspersed among those themes were records of having taken me to the doctor or hospital for a broken nose, broken finger, or cuts requiring stitches. (And my brother ensured that I was well supplied with stitches.) Perhaps the medical emergency that demanded the most space in her diary, however, was the time Dave and Gary Browning, my brother's college friends from Ohio, were in a terrible wreck and spent several long weeks in St. Mary's Hospital. During that time, Mother was at the hospital daily, often overnight, to be with the brothers, and she housed and fed their parents, sister, and other relatives when they were in town to visit the boys. And she recorded her activities and the boys' progress daily.
Those diary entries revealed a side of Mother that, though I had experienced it growing up, I had taken for granted. They helped me realize how blessed I was to have had such a hard-working, faithful, and compassionate mother. I only wish I had shown better my appreciation while she was still with us.
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