March, 1934 was full of dreams both sleeping and waking. There was one hidden dream not before mentioned, her dream to be a writer. I discussed this with her as we read this month’s passages because her choices left me smiling, laughing, and shaking my head. Out of no where, it seemed, she was expressing herself as if she were in a Victorian novel, yet it was accessible, enjoyable, and full of lightheartedness!
When she wrote about Spring’s zephyr winds, I had to look up the word. She may have just learned the word in school or in something she was reading and was trying it on for size. This is what writers do.
In 1935, she claims her birthday is just like any other day but one year earlier she’s imagining and writing about the moment of her birth.
Monday, March 5th, 1934
I didn’t have my hopes up for the one-act play but still stark realization sort of bursted my bubble of dream.
What 16 year old talks like this? I love it!
Saturday, March 17th, 1934
Wonder of wonders! Our radio arrived today. I consider it quite spiffy if no one else won’t.
I’m saving the best passages for the excerpt post but I’m telling you she was lyrical and literary and hysterical. She told me she would have loved to be a writer and my heart skipped beats. And ached at the same time. What else did she write? Poems? Stories? Essays? Will I ever run across them? She cannot remember them at this point so that will be left up to chance and what relatives have already snagged. Or does she not remember writing anything except these passages because this is all that ever was. Why did she never do it? Did she not have the confidence? Did she feel her role in life became over taken by motherhood and marriage? Did she feel it should be so? Were these everyday quips of passages enough of a creative outlet for her? Were they enough? Would I want anything more if I wrote these entries everyday? (I know the answer to that question.) I take for granted that I am two generations separate and I always jump to these conclusions. I hope she made decisions for herself and chose the life she wanted. It’d be tragic to someday find out someone squelched a young writer that could have left behind beautiful poems wrapped in twine like little birthday presents or one-act plays to make up for all the ones she was never cast in…