A Day in the Life, 2018, and a Month in 1940: Part One

There is some dream, some dream about…my garden.  I keep walking, taking turns peering around corners,

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and there’s more.  More yard, more rose bushes.  It’s both a marvelous

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dream, like The Secret Garden! and an anxiety dream.  There’s more.  More work to do.  I could have put the

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cucumber plants here and actually had room.  That bush needs pruning.  And in a raised bed I never knew existed in a large annex to my yard that couldn’t possibly be there, the dirt is moving, writhing.

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I am thinking: “It’s good.  It’s the bees that dig their homes into the dirt of my garden and weather the winter, or it’s worms.  Worms are good for the garden.”

I hear her walker.  I am awake.  She is entering the bathroom.

My heart skips a little with this thought: or is she exiting?  Will she be wanting breakfast now and there is none.  I look at the time.  It’s seven in the morning and she eats breakfast at nine.

Alarm.  I take a moment, listening, turning all of the alarms off.  That arsenal did nothing to help me wake up compared to the low clicking and sliding sounds of Babu’s walker.

I hear her messing with the white plastic container that holds her teeth.

I’m up and heading to her.

“Hey beautiful!”

“What time is it?”

Sunday, February 11th, 1940

Got very angry at Jake tonight cause he was late.

“7:00.  You are up early.”

Long pause.

“Is it breakfast?”

Friday, February 16th, 1940

Am going backwards now trying to remember.  

“Not yet Babu, you are up early.  You can go lay down for a while longer.”  The biggest problem here is I stood up and got out of bed and that intense morning pee is shouting my name.

“What time?”

“7:00 in the morning.”

“Oh, that’s early.  I’ll go back to bed.”

“That sounds good!”  I tell her and dance behind her as she makes a five point turn in her walker and heads for her bed.

I rush to the bathroom.  I know I should take a minute more and clarify for her, bring her around to understanding.  If I don’t, I’m likely to have her tapping back out asking me questions.  But I had to pee and now I can’t flush the toilet.  There is a problem but that’s a longer story.  It’ll be told later.

I hurry back out and peak, she is in bed again and seemingly asleep.  I head up stairs to make coffee.  I hope she doesn’t get right back up again.  Gotta keep her in her routine.

 

February, 1940, is blank on a few days.  The 1st, 2nd, 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th, and 9th.  Nothing like January, which began and has stayed completely void.  Glitches.  Time lost.  And I want her, not the now her, the 1940 her, to apologize and explain.  Despite my 80 years after feelings, the only explanation I get is this:

Sunday, February 18th, 1940

Now that I’ve started I can’t seem to get to write in here the night I should.

This is what she says to me when we are out of juice for breakfast:  “Shame, shame.”

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9 Comments Add yours

  1. Ocean Bream says:

    This is beautiful. Is it real? I am mesmerised. The 1940 version of somebody and their present-day self – that is 80 years’ difference.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. Wow, thank you for such a beautiful response. Yes, it is hard to believe but the journal entries from 80 years ago and forward are real. I have held them in my hands, but take pictures and transcribe the words from there so I handle the actual diaries as little as possible. Much of what is truly wonderful about this blog is Babu’s writing. I have been a couple years on this project and I just can’t identify what it is about the way she writes, but it’s magic.

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Ocean Bream says:

        I agree, it really is magic, and entwined with your own words you collide the worlds so impactfully – this should be a novel!

        Liked by 1 person

      2. Thank you so much. <3! Yes, there is a book in the future, at least in my dreams!

        Liked by 1 person

  2. Val says:

    Apart from Babu’s diary, do you keep a diary yourself? I do, have most of my life and, in parts of it, there are far more of these cryptic sort of ‘non-entries’ than anything else. For me, it’s usually a point at which I’m so exhausted with having had to think about or deal with something in my day to day life that when I sit down to write about it, it just doesn’t happen. Probably that’s what it was for Babu, too.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. I certainly agree that’s what Babu’s blanks are about. I’m just so greedy to hear about her whole life and read her delightful words that I’m mad I missed out on over a whole month! (How dare she? Haha.) Yes, I keep a journal but it is NOTHING like Babu’s. The first book I ever read about writing, and I was very young, was Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones. It seared into my consciousness as a writer so my journal entries cannot help but be a mess of therapeutic venting and stream of consciousness. I have kept them but, you know, it would probably be wise to just go ahead and burn them!

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Val says:

        Don’t burn them. Keep them. I destroyed my oldest journal – from my early teens to my early twenties – and have always regretted that as, later, I lost a lot of my ability to remember what happened then.

        Liked by 1 person

  3. luvsclassics says:

    My mom always a list maker with pencil in hand in her last few years would write short notes on a steno pad, or notebook and as I come across these, I put aside……holding onto her handwriting, her words. It sounds like a good idea to take photos of those pages……my mom passed away December 25.

    Liked by 2 people

    1. I am sorry for your loss. It sounds like you have a project brewing with those beautiful written memories of hers. Maybe a collage? Make a found poem from them? Take pictures and blog about what they make you think and feel? 😉 Maybe it is enough also just to keep them.

      Like

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