It began with a small, brown leather book. Its gold-edged pages are worn soft from time and handling. The word *Diary* is stamped in delicate gold script on the cover. The tiny lock had long since broken—maybe pried open by curious hands, or simply worn down through use.
Shortly before my father passed, he told me he wanted me to have Mom’s diary. I was in my thirties then, and Mom had been gone for over 14 years. I had no idea she had kept a diary. He said I could have it after he was gone—he didn’t want me to read it while he was alive.
After his death in 1987, my stepmother Carole called to say she had found the diary tucked away in a drawer—hidden, but in a place where she was sure to find it. When I finally held it in my hands, I sat down and read through the pages. I expected to learn about her early teenage years. What I didn’t expect was how much of myself I would find in her words.
In those pages is a three-year account of my mother’s life, written in her own hand, in her own voice. Thank you, Aunt Lucy, for giving Mom this diary on Christmas Day, 1931.
Through the diary entries and my own reflections, we’ll walk through her life. I’ll share her love of baking, sewing, and long-distance friendships. We’ll explore what was happening in her town during the 1930s, her social life, her relationship with her mom, and eventually, her love story with Francis, my father.
This is a story about love, stubbornness, and dreams. It’s about mothers and daughters, about holding on—and letting go. It’s also about realizing how deeply my own life was shaped by the world she lived in.
Though the diary tells her story, it’s also mine—and the story of the place we both called home: Evansville, Indiana.
Loved that you could discover how much of yourself you would find in your mother’s words.
What a treasure! I hope to read the entries you'll craft from this find.