THINGS I'VE LEARNED FROM MY JOURNALS

I first started keeping a journal in 1981.  I began by writing weekly, typewritten entries, but I soon realized that by the end of the week many of the interesting details of daily doings in a large family had drifted away, or all run together and lost their spontaneity.  

In April of 1982, I decided to keep a daily, handwritten journal.  I bought several blank page books covered in brightly printed fabric.  They were visually stimulating, and I figured they would keep me motivated.  They did, indeed, and I kept a daily journal continuously for the next nine years. Then for some reason I lapsed.  I didn't write regularly from 1991 through 1999.  During those years, however, I kept notes on a calendar and wrote an annual synopsis of important events at the end of each year.  Then in 2000 I bought an Ansel Adams day-planner, and started making daily entries again.  I have faithfully kept a daily journal since that time.

What have I learned from all this journal writing? 

 

1-Things that seemed routine or ho-hum at the time become vitally interesting 25 years down the road.  As I made daily entries,  I often thought such things as, "Who cares if Quinton, riding in the grocery cart, turned around while I wasn't looking,  grabbed the cottage cheese, removed the lid and dumped it out over all the other groceries?"  At the time it was just a very messy situation, now it is a hilarious memory!

2-Most of the crises and catastrophies that seemed so devastating at the time are no longer even relevant to my life.  "Time heals all wounds" is a truth.  Many of the seemingly overwhelming problems and issues just evaporated, often in a matter of only a few days or weeks.

3-Reading a journal entry from the past is like re-living a section of your life.  Its possible to retain a memory of an event without a journal, but writing it down brings it back with its full scope of emotions.

4-I've learned not to leave out the bad stuff.  Its a natural tendency to want only to write about the happy, smiley-face moments, but this is not real.  The bad stuff happens, and to have an accurate account of your life, it must be included.  As I said earlier, it will surprise you how irrelevant these shadowy moments in your life become as time erases, or at least diminishes them.

5-Several of my ancestors kept journals that are valuable to me beyond measure.  Durant Litchfield, my great, great grandfather kept a day by day account of his experiences as a soldier in the Civil War.  My grandmother, Loana Pickering Griffiths, wrote a detailed account of her childhood in the LDS colony in Alberta, Canada.  I love and cherish these writings.

I wonder if my ancestors ever wondered if anyone would really be interested in what they wrote.  I'm glad Grandfather Litchfield didn't say, "I don't think I'll bother to write anything today. Who cares about the boring, daily activities in camp.  Who cares that President Abraham Lincoln visited our company this week."  I'm glad my Grandmother Griffiths thought it worthwhile to write that her father took her and her sisters to school on horseback on days when the sub-zero temperatures of a Canadian winter prevented them from walking, but that on one occasion when they arrived at the school, the doors were frozen shut and they had to turn around and go back home.  

Great stories, all!  Aaron confiscating Ben's shoes is a great story, as is the cottage cheese incident, the Blue Donkey incident,  the dead mice dressed in doll's clothes incident, the "Nephi and the brass plates of Laban" re-enactment that frightened Mia out of her wits, and every other fun, terrifying, delightful, miserable or just plain ho-hum thing that happens in the course of the day. 

Write it down.  Someone, sometime, is going to just love it! 

A POEM FROM THE DISTANT PAST

This is for Mia, because I read the great poem she wrote on her blog and told her I would post one I had written when I was a child.  I wrote this poem when I was 8 years old for a school assignment.  The teacher thought it was too good for an 8 year old to have written, and accused me of copying it from a book.  My Mom (Grandma Kay) was furious, because she had been sitting with me when I wrote it.  She stomped over to the school and told that teacher a thing or two!!  Here is the poem:

THE BLACK STALLION

When everyone has gone to bed,

For the stallion comes at night,

He comes and goes without a sound

Just like a flash of light.

He lets the corralled horses free

And runs off to the plains.

The cowboys get up just in time

To see their flying manes.

They've tried to catch him many times.

He's the wildest horse out West.

They chase him over hill and dale,

But he always turns out best.

WHAT ARE WE TALKING ABOUT???

In the small southern Colorado town of San Luis there stands a beautiful, old Catholic santuario situated at the top of a hill. A trail winds up the hill to the church, and along the route the traveler encounters several shrines and statues, which represent the various Stations of the Cross.

A couple of months ago there was an incident in the town, which made the news. Three LDS missionaries assigned to the area had climbed the hill, and had posed with the various statues in a disrespectful and irreverent manner while the others took pictures. When they reached the top, they clowned around inside the sanctuary and vandalized some of the structures.

Apparently someone witnessed this despicable behavior and reported it. The three elders were subsequently reprimanded and sent home. The Mission President and a local Bishop were sent to San Luis to apologize to the townspeople and try to undo some of the damage that had been done.

We read about this incident when it happened, lamented about how unfortunate it was, and then more or less forgot about it. This, then, is the back-story for the following experience in San Luis.

On our way home from New Mexico in early May, we approached a beautiful, well-kept, little town. We noticed a Catholic Shrine at the top of a hill near the center of the town. We also noticed that in spite of the town’s tiny size, there was a brand new LDS church nearing completion on the main street. We circled around to get another look at the newly built chapel, then drove another block or so back to the visitor’s center to use their restrooms.

A friendly lady greeted us, and engaged me in the usual “Where are you from?” type conversation. I commented on the new LDS chapel just down the street, and mentioned that we were LDS. She seemed somewhat taken aback, and referred to “The recent news stories concerning the LDS Church.”

Having forgotten about the missionary incident and having no idea we were in the very town where it happened, I assumed she meant the recent news stories about the polygamist cult in Texas. Our conversation went something like this:

Me, referring to the cult in Texas: “Oh, those people are in no way associated with the mainstream LDS church. We no longer engage in such practices.”

The lady, probably surprised that we at one time did engage in the practice of vandalism: “Well, those three boys are all back home now.”

Me, thinking she meant three young boys in the Texas commune who had perhaps been abused in some way: “Thank goodness for that! At least they are now in a safe environment where they will no longer be harmed.”

The lady, with question marks beginning to appear above her head: “It was a terrible thing. The townspeople were very offended.”

Me, determined to smooth things over: “I think the whole nation was offended. This practice is becoming more and more common and we cannot allow it to continue.”

The lady, wondering why she had not heard about this rampant vandalization of shrines across the nation: “Well, the LDS Bishop who came down here was very nice. We had a town meeting and he offered sincere, heartfelt apologies.”

Me, in my mind: “WHAT? WHAT? WHAT? WHAT?"

The lady: “Yes, and another nice man from the LDS church came and offered to help repair the damage.

Me, wondering why a town meeting would be called in San Luis, Colorado because of a polygamist cult in Texas: “Those who practice this type of behavior are called Fundamentalists. The mainstream LDS Church excommunicates anyone who engages in this practice.”

The lady, somewhat shocked that an organization of vandals called Fundamentalists even existed: “That seems harsh. I think we should forgive them.”

Me: “Yes we should, but in the meantime women and children are being hurt and we need to think of them.”

The lady, unable to make heads or tails of this comment simply signed off: “We hope you enjoyed your visit to San Luis, and that you will visit us again. Goodbye!”

As we drove away, I tried sorting through the details of this conversation as my head spun in perplexity. Len salvaged my sanity by remembering the news story of the three missionaries and reminding me of it.

I’m afraid it was too late to save the sanity of the poor visitor’s center lady!

FUN WITH MAGNETS

We recently bought a set of magnetic words called "Magnetic Poetry". (www.magneticpoetry.com) We put all the words, (nouns, verbs, adjectives, pronouns, etc) up on our refrigerator, and when inspiration strikes, someone writes a message or a poem. It's fun, and really stretches the limits of our creativity because we can only use the words that are there. Here are three recent creations:

CHAIN ME TO A CHOCOLATE MOON,
LET MY DREAMS BE SWEET AND LUSCIOUS.
SMELL IT'S EASY POWER SPRINGING,
WHISPERING LANGUAGE OF A GODDESS.


WINTER'S SAD SYMPHONY FADES SOFTLY
AS SUMMER MUSIC WHISPERS NEAR THE GARDEN,
DELIRIOUS WITH SPRING.


BENEATH THE MOON
HEAVES THE STORMY SEA,
POUNDING OUT A WATERY SYMPHONY.

WAY BACK WHEN - 'Bama Days #2

OCTOBER 3, 1984
This morning we had what could only be called "The Great Shoe and Car Fiasco!" First of all, Ben missed the school bus because he could not find his shoes. He tore the house apart looking for them, and ended up suffering the great indignity of having to wear his Sunday shoes to school. He then caught a ride with Lenny, and I thought the shoe incident was over.

Shortly thereafter, Aaron sauntered out of his room wearing Ben's shoes. I was somewhat annoyed, but duly thankful that Ben had already left, thus averting a confrontation even more unsettling than the frantic shoe hunt had been.

About the time Aaron was in the middle of his cinnamon toast, Lenny, Ben and Mike Dean arrived back at the house announcing that the car had broken down over by the shoppette. Fearful of the showdown that would occur if the shoes were discovered, I cheerfully volunteered to drive the boys to school, and tried to discreetly usher them out the back door and into my car. But alas, Ben noticed Aaron wearing his shoes. The scene which ensued is difficult to describe. Ben, in his best high pitched shriek demanded the shoes back. Aaron insisted that he had "found" the shoes in his room (having, by the way, been left there by Ben while watching Aaron's TV on the sly) and wasn't about to return them.

Pandemonium reigned for a few terrible moments, but I was able to resolve the matter by promising Aaron that if he would return the shoes, I would buy him a new pair after he got home from work. His shoes were falling apart, and I guess no one had noticed till this outbreak occurred.

I then drove the three school-bound, but very late by this time, boys over to the shoppette and let them out to see if they could start the car while I dropped Quinton off at his school. When I returned, they had managed to start the car which had only been flooded, and were finally on their way.

Wow!! What a morning.

WAY BACK WHEN - 'Bama Days #1

APRIL 13, 1984
Last night Ben came into my room and asked me for an assortment of very strange materials. I asked him what he wanted them for and he rather sheepishly admitted that he wanted to make a pair of nunchuks; a martial arts weapon of some sort. I firmly said NO, and that he was to pursue the idea no farther. I thought that was the end of it, but I should have known better.

This morning I received a phone call from Ben’s school informing me that Ben had been caught with nunchuks, and now had a police record for carrying a deadly weapon! Ben, being the inventive person that he is, had scavenged together the needed materials on his own, and assembled the nunchucks in his room on the sly after I thought he had gone to bed. He is in big trouble and will be suspended from school for an undetermined length of time. Naturally, Len is away on one of his trips and I was just too flabbergasted over the whole thing to deal with it. It will just have to be put on hold till Len returns!

Busted! Busted! Busted!

HELEN, MY SISTER

I sat at the desk in our hotel room completely engrossed in my book when a sharp rap on the door startled me. The door opened slightly and a cheerful face peered around the edge.
“Housekeeping!” announced the owner of the face.
“Come in,” said I, and thus began a brief but unforgettable friendship.

The lady, who introduced herself as Helen, set to work immediately and while performing her housekeeping chores, spoke of many things.

I learned that she was born in 1942 in a poor section of Chicago. She had attended school with children of varied ethnic backgrounds, but at the end of the school day she and the other African American children were escorted back to their neighborhood and were expected to stay within those boundaries. She felt no anger or animosity toward anyone for this injustice, but accepted the fact that in those times “that was just the way things were.”

Helen had a happy home life, with several brothers and sisters, and good parents who taught their children of God’s love for them. They grew up with the certainty that even though the world discriminated against certain people, all were equal in God’s eyes. Their parents gave them the gift of self-esteem and confidence in an environment where self-doubt could easily have deflated them.

Helen is slightly round in shape and suffers from arthritis in many of her joints. Her knees are bad and require surgery. She has a heart condition, which causes frequent fatigue and often compels her to miss work. She did not mention these problems in a complaining way, but rather as a tribute to the hotel’s housekeeping staff for their understanding and kindness. Whenever she calls in to say she feels too ill to work, the management always tells her, “Just take care of yourself, Helen, and get to feeling better. We hope you will be back with us soon.”

Retirement is something she eagerly looks forward to. In November she will be sixty-six, and eligible for social security. She looks forward to spending time with her grandchildren. She is the mother of four, but one daughter recently died of sickle cell anemia, a severe and frequently fatal hereditary disorder common among those of African descent.

I suspect Helen could have completed her duties in our room quite quickly, but she lingered a full forty-five minutes to visit with me, puttering around and keeping busy all the while.

Not only did she freely share many details of her own life, but she was also interested in mine. She asked whether I had children, and when I told her she was sincerely intrigued.
“Wow.” She exclaimed, “Five Men!”
I told her about my eleven grandchildren; five boys and six girls, three of whom were triplets. She was ecstatic over this revelation, marveling and exclaiming about how wonderful it was.

The time passed much too quickly, and we very soon felt like old friends. Finally, when she could justify staying no longer, she came close to me and extended her hand in a gesture of farewell. What I saw in her eyes was genuine love and concern for a person she had known for less than an hour.

Though the circumstances of our lives appear different on the surface, the issues we deal with are much the same. We share a love of God and family. We worry about the world our grandchildren will inherit. We have elderly parents to be concerned about. We face health issues and the myriad of problems associated with aging. But above all, we are able to find joy amid the conflicts and complications of daily life.

I reached out and grasped her extended hand, forming a symbolic bridge between two lives. I had found a friend, a kindred spirit, a sister.