When I was nine, my mother gave me a diary.
It had a lock and key, and the pages were edged in “gold.”
Now the diary’s gilt edging has mostly worn off. And the lock is broken, which doesn’t really matter since the key has long since been lost. A bright pink hairband wrapped tightly around its middle is the only thing that keeps the pages from fluttering away into oblivion.
I was running out of interesting bedtime stories for the kids, so I’ve taken to reading to them from my diary instead.(Yes, it’s cheating. No, I don’t care.)
I read about a week’s worth of days each evening, maybe more. The kids get a kick out of all the things I did. For example, I:
a. made my own make-up
b. fought with my friends (all the time—I was quite the cantankerous little twit)
c. whined about the miseries of canning (still do)
d. reported on all the food I made and ate (I think there’s a theme here)
Other topics that get covered include: tin can stilts, Tom and Jerry (my children love them), my mom’s near (?) drowning and rescue, a surprise trip to the circus (though my dad spilled the beans by saying the word backwards and then I wrote it down and puzzled it out—pretty good for a pore speler sitch as me), a meteor shower, a holiday with the grandparents (the ones they never really knew), the demise (“smoshing”) of some garden-dwelling voles, Shakespearean ghost stories, etc.
I get a kick out of random lines, such as, “[My aunt] had a baby. It was born ten months young.”
This newest spin on our bedtime routine might go on for quite some time. I journaled daily for ten years, you know...
This same time, years previous: golden chicken curry, warm sourdough chocolate cakes