On Christmas day in 1980, I received the gift of a diary from my maternal grandparents. From my youth through college (and I suppose adulthood if you count the blogging) I fancied myself as quite the writer, usually poetry in the early days, and so I eagerly began to document every moment of my life when I received my first diary. Literally. This is an excerpt from the first entry dated December 25, 1980 (spelling and grammar intact from original):
“…I woke up my mom and dad. So they woke up and went to the bathroom and combed there’ye hair, and then we finally went downstairs to unwrap the presents. I got a big pen, an initial cover for my Bermuda bag, 2 flanel shirts, am. fm. radio, electronic baseball game, label writer, 2 pairs of leather gloves, construction paper, an R.B.C. jacket, winter jacket, winter hat, pencils, tablet paper, and earlier I got an ornament bell (says my name on it) and a pair of workboots. Later on we had breakfast. Toast, donuts, bacon….”
Well, sounds like a good Christmas morning. By the likes of the gifts, clearly there was the internal struggle of tomboy/girly-girl; artsy/jock. And workboots? OK, not sure what that means. I was 9. I had lots of “work” to do, for sure. Maybe my mom can explain. In fact, here’s a picture of me from that very Christmas morning (not in the workboots, though):
A couple notes:
{For those not from the Red Bank, NJ area – R.B.C. stands for Red Bank Catholic, which is the local Catholic high school, one that I attended a few years later. Their jackets must have been popular}.
{For those not from the Red Bank, NJ area – R.B.C. stands for Red Bank Catholic, which is the local Catholic high school, one that I attended a few years later. Their jackets must have been popular}.
{OK raise your hand if you were a girl born in the 70s. That means you were a young girl in the 80s. That means you know exactly what I am talking about when I mention a “Bermuda bag”. And you know exactly why I am laughing out loud right now. Certainly this could not have just been an east coast fad I hope.}
So this was the genesis of what would become a creative and therapeutic outlet for me off and on for the next 20 years. At last count I have about 12 full journals of entries. Some of the entries make me cry, some make me laugh, some make me nauseous with embarrassment so much that I want to rip the pages out, and others just me nostalgic for youth. For simple things. For simple times like this entry from my birthday dated, January 22, 1981 when I turned 10 years old:
“Today was my birthday! At school they sang happy birthday to me and Ann Marie. Ann Marie Newell was born on the same day as me! For my party, Lori and Mitzy were over. Boy, was it fun! I played with one of the blocks of clay I got as a present. Oh, I forgot to tell you, me and Mom went out for ice cream after school. I had a hot fudge sundae! It was delicious! Well, I’ve got to go to bed now! Bye!”
{Note: Lori and Mitzy were friends of my older brother, Michael. And apparently I was either just learning the art of punctuation with all the exclamation points or I was a really happy kid.}
So this first diary lasted me through to the date of Wednesday, October 2, 1985 where it documented, in gory detail, the gradual erosion of my innocence while talking about boy crushes, kissing, heartbreak, mischief, sleepovers, and menstrual cycles. It surely is a keeper. But surely needs to be burned at the moment of my death. And as for innocence, it sure does end early, doesn’t it?
