Musing About Journaling

Kaleidoscope of Life  (Well, no.  It's really Stones in the Davidson River)

Thanks to another online journal, I've been thinking a bit this morning about why I journal, which has led me down a path of wondering what I might have journaled about in the past had I gotten myself in gear to do it, which has reminded me (again) that I have a birthday in a week.  (Phew!)  So I decided to inaugurate a little self-birthday celebration by writing the entries that I might have written at ten year intervals, with a three-sentence limitation to each.  Here goes:

July, 1954 in southern Ohio (OK, so I wouldn't have been journaling at the age of one. But if I had been, here's what I might have said): Life is perfect.  My grandmother put a baby swimming pool in her back yard and filled it up with a hose, and she and my mom spent the afternoon watching me splash.  I have the pictures to prove it.

July, 1964 in the North Carolina Mountains:  I will celebrate my 11th birthday with  singing in the dining hall and a watermelon with my cabin.  I'm learning to ride a horse and I'm going to get the highest possible Red Cross swimming card for my age group this summer.  If only I could stay here forever and never, ever, go home again, where my Wicked Stepmother reigns supreme.

July, 1974 in Providence RI:  Amazingly, I am married to a good man, attending a fine college, and marginally employed for the summer.  Last summer my job was worse -- all you have to do is work on an assembly line making GI Joe flashlights for two months to become convinced of the value of a college degree. This summer I just have to ring up cigarette sales, read my way through the magazine stand, and decide what on earth I might do with myself after college.

July, 1984 in northern Ohio:  Everyone said that these twins would be born prematurely but there's obviously no hope of that.  The cashier at the grocery says she has never in her life seen anyone as pregnant as me.  When I emerge from the city pool like a pregnant elephant lumbering out of the water, I can see in the averted eyes of the sunning teenagers that I am the best advertisement for abstinence that they will ever encounter.

July, 1994, still in northern Ohio: I am trying to juggle just a few too many things at once: the boys are almost ten, my daughter is almost seven, and my law practice is almost one.  Luckily, one of their Montessori teachers is working for me this summer and managing everything beautifully.  My husband travels way too much and all I want to do is go to the pool with the kids.

July, 2004, still in northern Ohio (How did that happen?): The last decade has been the most difficult of my life, and  I hope never to see its like again.  I hope it's not tempting the fates to acknowledge with relief that things are looking pretty good right now, though.  Let's raise a glass to our fifties!