The Old Journal

I finally got around to my version of spring cleaning, which involved washing windows and curtains. While perched atop a little stepladder, I glanced to my left and noticed shelving used to display doodads and a few random books, seldom used – if ever. The dust confirmed it. As often happens when I take on a project, one thing led to another, and soon I was clearing shelves and reaching for a dust cloth.

There, among the clutter, I found a journal my mother used to record some of her childhood memories. Of course, I sat right down with a cup of tea and forgot about the windows. The gift was priceless. It was one of those books with prompts such as, “Share a memory of a grandparent or an older person you loved.”

There was no date indicating when she made her entries, but I’m guessing she was in her late 80s or early 90s. Her handwriting was still very legible, and I’d like to share a bit of her memories. In response to the prompt, she wrote:

“I dearly loved my grandma and grandpa Peer. We didn’t see them very often. They lived in Johnstown, PA. There were no turnpikes or interstates in the 1920s or ’30s, so it was a seven- or eight-hour ride – maybe longer. Grandma and Grandpa were always happy to see us (a family of six), but just as happy to see us leave.

“I can still see Grandma peeling apples in one continuous peel. She said if I were to throw it over my shoulder, whatever letter the peel made would be the initial of the man I would marry. It always looked like an ‘s.’

“She also told us that in eating sour cherries, we needed to eat five of them before they would taste sweet. To keep me occupied, she would give me a box of buttons and a needle and thread to string them together. I thought I was being a big help.

“My Grandpa Peer was a big, burly man with a generous mustache. He scared the neighbor kids, but he had a soft spot for me.”

I never knew my great-grandparents, so this glimpse into their lives offered a meaningful snapshot of them and of my mother as a little girl.

Her last entry came only a few pages later. I’m not sure why she stopped, but I took over, describing my own life 50 years later for my grandchildren to discover on a dusty shelf someday.

The following is her account of “a severe winter storm”:

“Winter of 1950 – Of course there were winters and more winters, but the one that stands out in my mind was 1950, the year our third baby turned 1. Bruce arrived Sept. 21, 1949. It started snowing the day after Thanksgiving and snowed for three days straight. The neighbors shoveled the streets, but it was futile, so the milkman parked at the corner. Some adult in the family would trudge through the deep snow to get milk and bread.

“Of course, through the years there were other more harrowing experiences that happened to other people, like the truck driver whose truck was buried in snow for three days and no one knew he was there. That was the year snow never left until spring of 1951.”

My first entry in her journal was made in 2015 in response to the prompt: “Did the pastor ever come to your house for dinner or tea? Share one vivid experience.”

I wrote: “I was preparing for a first date with a young man when I was 19 or so. A minister friend had been invited for dinner. Following the meal, he and my dad were relaxing before the television when my date came to the door. The good reverend jumped to his feet, quickly re-fastening his trousers to properly greet the young man, whose name is lost forever as he never asked me for a second date.”

Let me clarify, as that doesn’t read quite the way it happened. I believe the visiting pastor was simply very well-fed at my parents’ table and making himself comfortable after dinner.

So, a word of advice when recording memories for future generations: You might want to edit yourself a bit.