Writing #7

At 2:00 yesterday afternoon I decided to go home early in case the bus came earlier than usual. As I approached the door I saw that the bus was already turning the corner coming to the bus stop, which I wasn't at, but should have been. I said something under my breath, pushed through the revolving door and ran. My backpack bounced back and forth on my back

My usual routine after math, at 1:50 pm is to climb the steps by the lounge, shrug off my backpack full of books and sit on the ledge by the railing at the front entrance waiting until 2:05 when I walk to the bus stop by the north annex. The bus, usually on time, comes at 2:12. One particular Wednesday, though, I thought I'd leave a little early, since the driver hadn't been the regular one for the past two days and consequently the bus schedule was a bit mixed up.

As I stood up, putting my right arm through the red strap of my heavy backpack and walking to the revolving door, skipping the other strap in place around my left shoulder I noticed, through the window that the bus was already on its way down Fleetwood drive. In a matter of seconds it would be past the bus stop and I would have to wait a half hour for the next one. I pushed through the revolving door, not paying attention to the squeaking sound the rubber maked on the glass that usually makes me think of the sound a window-washer's squeegee makes. Then I ran.

My shoes making a flapping sound on the pavement and my books bouncing back and froth on my back with every running step I took. I passed two men in suits and ties wondering if they thought I was being pursued. All the while I was watching the bus, which by now had come to a halt at the bus stop.

No one was boarding so naturally I thought the driver was waiting for me. I paused in my flight wondering if he would stop at the corner where I was then standing. Better not chance it, I thought; so I was off again, afraid that the bus would zoom past me while I was halfway between stops. I finally reached the bus, panting form my run and boarded.

I thought I'd make a joke of the incident so I asked the driver if he'd ever tried to run with 15 pounds of books on his back. He answered dryly, "Not lately." He then sat there ten more minutes to make up for being early.

Note:
While I don't remember the actual incident of running to the bus, I do remember writing this story for my English class. I think I got a good grade on it because of the action and description.

Journal Entry #9 -- Thursday, October 9, 1975

I thought I could handle it. I thought that since I know love and am engaged to Jeremy I could handle a conversation with another male as smoothly as a conversation with a female. But I can't. My heart is racing and I am shaking. I was fine -- so calm and cool when I was talking but now I am so nervous. It is awful. It was a man on the bus. A man. Not a boy. Maybe I can talk to a boy, my age or younger, but not a man -- with a beard. Not a fuzzy beard like Dan's but a well-trimmed beard. He was very nice. One stupid thing I said was my answer to his question, "Where do you board?" I thought he meant "live" so I replied, "I live at home." Then I realized what he meant so I said, "and I board at Paul's Restaurant." Good heavens, how embarrassing.

Note:
I don't recall this exchange on the bus. I rode the bus to my community college because I didn't drive until I was 22 -- nearly 23 years old. It was a straight shot up McLean Avenue to the college, but too far to walk. I'd take the bus very early to avoid parochial school students.

Journal Entry #7 -- September 27, 1975

11:30 pm

The first thing to do is write in my English journal, then my regular journal, then to Jeremy, then to Sue and finally to Pam. Then I can read a chapter in Upstairs, Downstairs. Then to sleep.

I've been rearranging my room tonight. I think I will really like this way, but I become bored with it so often.

I think I'll be doing homework from the time I rise until Monty Python tomorrow.

I really think I like the way I have my room. Gee whiz -- now that I've found the way I like it, I don't have much longer in it. I'll be going away to school the year after next and when, who knows? Jeremy and I want to live together -- share an ampartment -- the first year he's here. Then I'll get married. So I guess this room goes to Kevin -- Or Mom and Dad.

It's going to be sad -- but I guess its not the room -- it could be all my things -- posters, drawings, records, books, knick-knacks -- everything. Everything holds meaning for me.

Note:
About the room -- I think Kevin moved up there after I finally left (at age 23 -- I didn't go away to school and Jeremy and I broke up my senior year of college). When he left it was turned back into a storage room, occasionally used as a guest room.

Collecting #2 -- No date

1. While doing the dishes and worrying about my history test, my uncle -- whose daughter and I are the same age, but she isn't going to college -- asked me if I was going to school. When I said yes, he said, "So you aren't a working girl then?"
2. Complaining about my old history teacher to my eye doctor / friend and finding out that he had him for history and liked him.
3. Waiting a month for a birthday present from my boyfriend overseas and it being all chipped up when it gets here.
4. Getting all my homework out of the way and settling down in front of the television with my sewing to watch a movoe only to find out a different movie (about cops and robbers) is on instead.

Note:
Another list of items for English.

Journal Entry #6 -- September 26, 1975

8:03

I didn't quite execute self-discipline today. I got up late and only studied for one hour in the library, but the night's not over yet. I've just figured out that I waste 53 hours a week -- that's more than two days I waste -- and not sleeping either. What do I do with my time? Cut that -- it's 50 hours a week. Writing to Jeremy is not a waste of time.

Uncle Vern and Aunt Norma are over. Uncle Vern is so stupid -- all he talks about is how rotten the world is treating him and his little Bonnie (who's 19 in January) or how we should get rid of the [n-word] before they get rid of us. People like him make me ill.

Note:
I don't remember this day nor the calculations I must have made to come up
with how much time I wasted a week. Interesting. I wonder what I counted as
wasting time. TV? What else. Not reading, I hope.

Uncle Vern - biggest bigot I've ever known. End of story.

Journal Entry #5 -- September 25, 1975

I hate college. There is no doubt about it. But I have to go. If I want my family to respect me I've got to go. I hate Mr. Lehr. He is an old stupid man who should have been put out to pasture years ago. Well, I don't hate him. I hate the way he teaches. I know that hate is a strong word. I also know that I shouldn't use it. But I almost feel that strongly about homework. Why do I waste time? Time is so precious. I've learned that this summer.

I've got to get a job. I want to go to England next year so I've got to get a job. I don't want to -- my grades will suffer. I think I'm very un-self-disciplined. I've tried to be disciplined but I can't. I suppose I could if I tried. I think I will try. Tomorrow, instead of staying in bed after the alarm goes off, I'll get up and perhaps get something done. Then tomorrow night, instead of relaxing, I'll do homework. Saturday I'll go job hunting -- just see if I don't. I'll make it -- I'm sure of that.

Note:
I was not self-disciplined. I'm still not self-disciplined. College was a
rude-awakening. I didn't have to study much in high school for decent grades,
but college was another story, especially in classes where the professor
had been around a while. The newer professors were more easy going and
perhaps had more interesting ways of teaching.

Collecting #1 (No Date)

1. Bus driver sitting on her bus, under "No Smoking" sign, smoking a cigarette.
2. The last days of summer cloudy and cold while the first days of autumn sunny and warm
3. My father [incorrectly] correcting my mother's grammar (using still where yet would be better) and turning to me saying, "Good grief, she didn't never used to speak like that.")
4. A neighbor who moved away called up and said that someone had stolen her waitress uniform off the line and the next day finding out that one of her co-workers had hidden it in the rose bush.
5. An old woman whom I have lived behind for 14 years saw me at the bus stop and asked where I lived. This woman is known for her observation.

Note:
I guess this was a list of contrasting things for
my English class. I actually remember every event, especially my father's
grammar lesson. My father thought that it was proper to use the word "yet" in
place of "still" in most instances. For example, instead of saying, "My brother
still uses this way of speaking." My dad would say, "My brother uses this way of
speaking yet."

I don't know if it is correct, but I suspect not. Or perhaps it is a regional
way of speaking.

No date -- The Smile --

The old broken down huts and the good houses.
The little boy and his boyish / monkish sides
The little boys ability to get along with the ox
The kids insight on nature
The violence contrasting with the monks serenity
The girls smile being taunting while the kids smile friendly
The older monks ignorance of the fun while the boy's fascination make shim stop and play with the puppets
The little boy seemed to be doing what Buddha said more than the old monk

Note:
This looks to be a list of observations of a short film we watched in class. I checked on IMDB.com for a short film called "The Smile" but didn't find one.

Journal Entry #4 -- September 17, 1975

Last night as I tried to sleep at 11:00 pm, I wished my father would stop working in the basement. He was sawing and hammering and although I sleep on the top floor of the our two story house the sounds came up through the register and sounded like my father was in the next room. Buzz, buzz, pound, pound -- so late at night. Then I stopped, "Hey wait a minute." This is the only time he could work on the basement room. He works all day and moonlights after dinner. Then my mind wanders to other things he's done here late at night.

My room was built with that perseverance. He would be found pounding nails or sawing wood in the attic, transforming it into the beautiful room I call mine.

I never thought cleaning my room could be so enjoyable! It is so great to be back here -- I've got so many memories stored in every crevice. Even the carpeting is memorable. I know I had to give up my room to Jeremy for 6 weeks while he was visiting because it

Note: The entry before the crossed out paragraph was surprisingly compassionate for me during this time. It's pleasant to look back on it to see that I did understand what my dad went through to make us comfortable.

Not sure why I crossed out the last paragraph. Maybe I ran out of time to finish my thoughts?

Journal Entry #3 -- September 16, 1975

Why do I always feel like doodling when I get bored with history? I've just drawn a shoe on my folder and my hand keeps straying to the white part of the paper. I can't stand history! I don't even feel like writing now. I'm hungry. I should have never begun eating lunch again. I'll never get any studying done. I'm going to meet Karen and Sue in 20 minutes.

Note: All I remember about this post is hating history. The professor was an old school educator and his lectures were very boring. Plus, I didn't like the subject. I failed a few quizzes, but finally got the hang of college history.

Journal Entry #2 -- September 15, 1975

I should have been writing in here much more often, but I guess I put it off too much. I do have something to write about now thought -- my room.

I finally got it back -- after almost three months of seeing Kevin and Bob run up and down the steps. When Jeremy was here things weren't so bad except when I got to thinking about not sleeping in my bed right after Jeremy. But now that is all over. My room and I are reunited.

Some people may think that I am foolish to feel so strongly about a bedroom, but I have very strong ties with the room itself. Sure, everything in it holds a special meaning, but the very nails were put in with a sort of love that not much else suprasses. My father worked very hard one summer to try to finish building this part of the attice for me while I was visiting my grandmother in Wisconsin. I hold a special feeling for this room as I don't have, and most likely ever will for any other for the rest of my life.

Note:
When I was around 16 my father finished off the attic of our mid-19th century bungalow. My brother was getting older and need a place to sleep other than an alcove in the living room. He would have my bedroom and I would get part of the attic.

I was excited about this, but terrified of the attic itself. I told myself that it would be ok - it would no longer look like an attic - which had no floors, just fluffy yellow insulation between support beams. I'm not sure how mom and dad stored things up there without floorboards. It was amazing that they lived in that house for 11 years and didn't seem to need the storage an entire story would provide. I guess they couldn't afford it - either in time nor money.

My first night in that room was the only time I was afraid up there. I remember being terrified and when my nose began to bleed (probably from breathing sawdust) I was too afraid to go downstairs to deal with it, so I just bled all over the sheets.

My cousin Bob lived with us for a few years after getting in trouble. My dad insisted he finish high school if he lived with us. I'm not sure where he slept before Jeremy's visit -- perhaps he and Kevin got my room right away. At first I felt magnanimous about the situation, but after he and I had a number of altercations, I quit being so noble and longed for my room -- I must have put up a fuss, because I got the room back. I am unsure where Bob and Kevin ended up sleeping after I got my room back because I don't think the basement bedroom was complete at this point.

I was wrong about feeling so attached to a room, because I feel the same about my office (which incidently is in the attic of our house).

Knoxville: Summer of 1915 -- Writing

This essay brings back the pleasure of being allowed to play outside after dark. Mother would grant me the honor at different times -- perhaps if I had eaten my dinner well that night or if I cleaned my room. Devin would say, before dinner, "I'll see you after dinner. I knew I wouldn't see her. But sometimes I would be able to. I remember once -- when my mom and dad and aunt and uncle were sitting in the backyard and aoo of us kids were running all around catching lightning bugs.

---

I can feel the excitement even now of catching a lightening bug. I'd see him blink on and off across the lawn and I'd run to where he was, hoping to see him again. There he was -- I'd be close enough now to see him without his light -- a black speck with transparent wings vibrating at his sides. I'd sneak up and encase him in the hollow made from my cupped hands. There I'd feel him trying to escape, tickling my palms with his wings. I'd run to an empty peanut butter jar and open it with one hand while the other held my precious catch. There he'd drop -- to the bottom of the jar -- I'd quickly replace the cover and turn it. Then I'd examine the catch and sometimes shake the jar to make him light up.

My brother had a different technique. His first steps were similar to my own, but when he caught the lightening bug he wouldn't keep it captured in a jar, but whip it to the sidewalk and step on it, knowing that this was the secret to making "rings". I never liked to watch that, but it was an obsession to my brother and other boys.

Note:
While I don't recall reading Knoxville: Summer of 1915, which a Google search tells me is a "short prose piece by James Agee", I do remember catching fireflies. I don't think my brother really threw fireflies on the sidewalk though. My mother told me that she used to do that, so I think I incorporated it into my story and used my brother instead of my mom as the offender. Good thing my memoir was never featured on Oprah.

The Dump Ground -- Writing #1

I remember Mountain Street. I was there during the first five years of my life. One especially memorable place was the little pink room I slept in. I think the kitchen was on the other side. One time I was playing with Mike G. under the window at a little wooden table with matching chairs (one of which my mother threw across the room on a later date, breaking the back). We had two little cans of Play-Doh and were making "cookies". Mike, being two years my junior, at one of the "cookies". I screamed at him, bringing both our mothers into my room. I think his mother held him upside down to make him spit out the Play-Doh. I screamed until my Play-Doh was out of his mouth -- I didn't care if he was poisoned, I just wanted my Play-Doh back.

Another memory of the old house is my portable phonograph. I had lots of records from The Mickey Mouse Club and Walt Disney movies such as Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty. I also had a long playing record on which, among others, were the songs The Old Woman Who Swallowed a Fly and Wish Upon a Star -- My mother sat on it. It was my favorite one, too.

I remember when Archie, our cocker spaniel couldn't climb the basement stairs. We took him to the vet and he never came out. Later my father explained that Archie had broken his back and the vet put him to sleep. I waited a long time for Archie to wake up, but I learned, too soon, that when a pet is put to sleep they don't ever wake up.

Note:
This was written for my English class in my freshman year of college. While I do not recall reading The Dump Ground, I remember writing the final draft of my own memories and reading it aloud to the class. Several girls cried at the end and a few said I was a good writer. I also remember everything mentioned in the story except for the record my mom sat on. I guess I got over it.

September 4, 1975 -- Journal::Entry 1

I guess we are supposed to write in our journals. I don't know. That seems to be what I am usually thinking around here -- "I don't know". I don't know what is going on in my other classes. Either my mind is muddled or the teachers don't speak clearly. Sometimes I wonder what I am doing here. But of course -- I can't "teach little kiddies" (as Dan said yesterday) without college. I could be married and in England right now if I weren't here, but I am and I guess I'd best make the best of it.

I dropped tennis today. It may have been a stupid move but I did it. I can't stand not knowing anyone in my group -- no one seems to want to be my partner. I didn't think I was that repulsive. I wonder what my mother will say when I tell her. I don't have to tell her I guess. But she'd find out sooner or later. It's not as if she is paying for college or anything like that.

Note:
I don't recall feeling so confused or depressed about junior college, however I do recall dropping tennis and feeling guilty about it.

It is a shame I didn't go to a 4-year school right away. I seemed to still be under my parents' control in college. My comment on them not paying for it was true. I received financial help from the Illinois State Scholarship Commission which meant my tuition was paid for. If I'd gone to a 4-year college and lived there, tuition and room & board would have been paid for.

To this day I don't know if my parents didn't understand this or if they were too proud to take that much money from the state. My guidance counselor was disappointed that I didn't even attempt to go to Illinois State University.

Chapter 2 Writing 3

No Date

The Red Balloon

Wow! A great film. I felt close to Jeremy when I saw this because he saw it last year when he was here. The little boy was so cute. He really loved that balloon. I remember when I was young I used to cry if my balloon popped. I once accidentally broke my brother's and cried. One other time I was riding in the back seat of my dad's truck and was holding onto three balloons -- two on sticks and one that floated (which was red, incidentally). The red balloon escaped my hand and "ran away". I screamed and my father thought I was in pain or something.

I really was happy to see that film. I've heard so much about it. The balloon was so red and round, it must have been an expensive one. It's strange that the people wouldn't understand this kid's feelings for his balloon.

I always thought of balloons as being sort of companions -- of course mine never stayed around when I left unless they were in the house. Hey! What if when that balloon of mine left me, it was going to find some kid who had just had his killed? Nice thought huh? I wonder if the young mind of a child works like psychologists think adults do. I mean perhaps when my balloon broke I was realizing that my life is so "short"? Naw, can't be.

All through the film I was worried the balloon was going to break. It looked so fragile, well actually it looked much more hearty than any other balloon I've ever seen, but the way that kid pulled it around -- I was sure it would break.

He didn't seem to mourn his lost, broken balloon too much -- when the others came he just dropped the remains of his old friend to get his new friends. But that seems the way a child's mind works. It flits from one thing to another with out stopping at one too long (look at me saying that in this paper). I am really happy to have seen the film. I am seriously considering buying the book, for I saw it at a bookstore.

I liked Clown better though.

Note:
I recall writing this entry clearly. I also remember seeing The Red Balloon for the first time. It stuck with me so long that I ended up getting the VHS for my children as well as getting the book I'd mentioned in the entry.

Of course it is on YouTube: The Red Balloon Part 1 (I'm sure you can find the rest of it on YouTube yourself.)

I've not the film in years, but thought this amusing:
The Revenge of the Red Balloon.

Clown was a film about a young boy searching for his dog in the streets of Paris. I wish I could find that to see again. An Internet check shows that it was directed by Richard Balducci in 1968 and is eligible for upload at World Cat. And a further search shows that several libraries have a copy.

Chapter 2 Writing 1

It's hard to get started. I'm sitting in the dining room, alone except for Cinder. The sun has decided to come out today -- the rest of the weekend was cloudy. Sort of an English Summer Day. I miss Jeremy. I was writing to him last night when Karen called me to come over for Kasey's birthday party. Oh, Kasey was so excited. She kept on saying, "Want some cake Dona?" She cried when she had to go to bed. I met her mamas and papas too, last night. I was a little nervous when I got home because Carol and I talked of spirits yesterday afternoon. I hate ghost stories but at the same time I like them. I don't know why that is. As much as I enjoy being alone -- to read or write -- I don't think I could ever live all alone in an apartment or something.

I had a good enough time this weekend being on my own but I am almost ready for my family to get back here. I think cinder wants Franz too. She's been biting me today -- for attention I suppose. The wind is blowing outside now and I hear an airplane. I wish I was on that plane on my way to England. I have not gone outside yet today. I got up late and remembered my homework. I should also answer the letters that have built up from Jeremy's visit. I can't think of anything else to write -- that's how my letters always end, my way out I suppose. Well the timer has gone off -- 10 minutes is over.

Note:
I think this must have been an English assignment for college. I didn't date it, although on the front of this journal it says the first entry was September 1975. Mom, Dad and Kevin (and Franz the daschund) must have gone to Wisconsin for the weekend. Or something. I was just 19.

Chapter 2 Writing 2

1.

I've just changed the kitty litter and put my contacts in. I also fixed myself a ham sandwich from Kasey's party and a large glass of 7Up^®. I am waiting for 1:00 to roll around so I can see Lord Peter Wimsey which I missed last night because I was talking to Mike and Karen.

I'm looking forward to Upstairs Downstairs to start again. I was so excited when Hudson and Mr. Bellemy were on Dick Cavett Saturday night. I really jumped up and down. Why do I get so emotional? I get so angry or excited that I must show others how I feel by jumping or hitting or screaming. I guess I'm not grown up enough or something.

My that sandwich looks good. Cinder thinks so too. She has now plopped herself down on the table -- she knows that she oughtn't do that, but I guess she also knows that I won't hit her like Daddy does.

I'm not sure I'm really liking college. The amount of homework stunned me. I have to get a job so I will have even less time in which to do my homework. I want to get good grades too.

I wonder how much grades really count when one gets a job. College is different than high school. I can't pinpoint the difference, but I know it's there. More freedom perhaps.

2.

Here I am trying to dry my hair in the five o'clock sun of a September evening. There are apples on the gound all around my lawn chair. I should have picked them up this weekend -- Daddy once told me that if the apples weren't picked up he'd cut down Charlie.

The leaves of the giant cottonwood in our back door neighbor's yard is making pretty patterns on the backside of our house. As the leaves blow in the wind the patterns change like a kaleidescope. Cinder's been let outside -- she doesn't get out much -- it seems like whenever she is let out she goes in heat -- that must be a coincidence thought. She is now chasing an imaginary mouse, creeping up like a panther. She looks like a miniature replica of a black panther. Nothing is coming to my mind. I don't know when my ten minutes will be up since I don't have a watch on, but I'll stop at the end of this page.

I wish I'd stop twisting my hair. It is such a childish habit. But I should be glad I'm not into an "adult" habit such as smoking or drinking. I was really surprised that Carol smoked. I wonder why I have such an aversion to smoke. It's not the people. I like the people but the smoke bothers me so much. I remember my mother, when she would smoke and I would complain she would get angry. My father still does with cigars.

Jeremy was so thoughtful to stop for me. Actually he did himself a favor by quitting.

3.

What an awful experience -- I had just gotten into bed to do my last 10 minute writing and I saw a brown tiny object on my bed cover. I looked closer and saw it was an ant. I picked him up and aw that he was very close to being dead -- his legs were all crunched up in an M or W. His antennae were moving very slightly though. I didn't want him to just be thrown on the floor. A house is no place for an ant so I went to the window with him on my finger, meaning to throw him out and let him die where he belonged with nature. Well by the time I got to the window he had gone. He's somewhere between the bed and the window. Poor tiny creature. I wonder if his wife and kids know that he is dead. I wonder if ants have a widow fund.

Once, a few weeks ago, I was walking home from the store and I saw a mangy brown dog that looked homeless. I hoped he wouldn't come near me because I have a terrific fear of rabies. Anyway, on the way home I looked over my shoulder and saw that this dog was following me. Something white was coming from his mouth which I later reasoned was spit since it was a hot day and he and he had been running. I didn't think so I said, "Go home!" and he gave me a very sad look and ran off in the opposite direction. Afterwards I felt awful. I didn't even have a kind word for a stray dog. I do believe that his eyes will haunt me for a long time.

Notes:
Just lots of memories - my obsession with all British programs, Dick Cavett, my apple tree - that I named Charlie. Twice my father came across as a brute - hitting cats and threating to cut down my tree (which he did after I moved out). Then there was Cinder, my black cat and constant companion, all the way through my teens and into my thirties. I actually remember the dead ant and the stray dog. Probably because I wrote about them.

It is obvious I was trying to impress an English teacher -- this doesn't really sound like my voice.

December 31, 1975 In which I bid adieu to 1975

10:49 pm

An hour and 11 minutes 'til 1976. Another sad New Year's Eve. 1975 was a good year as years go. I've got that funny feeling in the pit of my stomach, like I'm saying goodbye to an old and dear friend soon.

I'll bet that if I read every New Year's eve entry they all sound like this one.

• January 1975 - Learned that Jeremy was coming for sure
• February - [something scribbled out] Started watching Monty Python
• March - Sent Jeremy "Wolf" pendant
• April - Big snow
• May -
• June - Graduation
• July - Jeremy / Minocqua
• August - 19 / College / Phone call Jez, Cindy
• September -
• October - Work
• November -
• December - Phone call from Jeremy

I guess this wasn't the most busy year, but it was OK. Nothing really terrible happened to me. This Holiday Season was for the birds though. I had my first "holiday blues year". I hope I don't have any other. Although it was mild, Christmas didn't thrill me so much -- I guess my problems at school as well as work didn't help much. For anyone reading this in the future :-) I'd like to resolve my hatred for Mr. Lehr. He was a pretty good guy after all -- actually I don't really think I deserved what I got - a "B". I more like deserved a "D". D for Dumb. The other grades surprised me too. 3 "A"s and a "C". I guess I'm not doing so bad after all. Maybe next semester I'll make the Dean's list.

I wonder if I can write enough to fill up the next page. Probably not.

I wish I wasn't tired always. In 50 minutes I shall say goodbye to 1975. I'd better write to my love.

I'm back. I've just remembered what else I can write about - my resolutions.

1. Get up early (no more than 8 hours sleep!)
2. Study well in school.
3. Don't procrastinate
4. Try not to waste time
5. Be more friendly
6. Don't be bitcy to Jeremy
7. Keep up on letter writing
8. Keep up on journal writing
   
9. Always do something worthwhile
10. Keep track of every penny spent and don't spend foolishly
11. Cut down on meat if not altogether
12. Pick up after myself
13. Take care of my things better (teeth, contacts, room, cat, hair, nails etc)

Well that just about covers it -- Just try to be my ideal person I guess. Now I think I can do my artwork on the back.

Goodbye 1975! I'll miss ya!

Welcome 1976 -- Hope we will get along, we've got 366 days to go!

[back of last page in book written in magic markers and every which way]

1975 Memories

"Monty Python"
"Masterpiece Theatre"
Graduation
19 years old
Narcissus & Goldmund
Watership Down (1/2)
Cindy
Jeremy
Late nights <---- clothes pin people ------->
LOVE
ECC
Eric
:-(
Minocqua
Mr Lehr :-)
Zayre
Catching Bouquets

Note:
I've never much liked New Year's eves. They've always felt more sad than hopeful to me.
Those resolutions look a lot like the ones I try to keep every year. Not much changes in 30-something years, I guess.

Mr Lehr was my American History instructor at the community college. He had the audacity to expect us to study. I didn't and got a few Fs on quizzes. I finally figured it out and began studying.

November 5, 1975 In which I don't know what is wrong.

Wednesday
11:30 pm

I can't sleep. I wrote to Jeremy earlier and I've nothing to say.

I don't know why I can't sleep -- I should go and get some warm milk. Then I'll be off to dreamland in an instant. I feel like I should be doing something, but I have every right to be in bed doing nothing. I am anxious now and upset. About what though? I don't know. I'm worried about how I am going to get home two weeks from now -- isn't that stupid? My stomach is churning. I wonder what I am upset about. I wish I was rich. I don't have any problems -- I think about people that do.

What to get people for Christmas? Stupid. Why worry -- November 5 only. My head is whirring. I should order [a] sampler.

Jeremy wants to read this. Should I burn it? What is the use if I do burn it. So much has gone on from green cover to brown cover.

I have to make my graduation notebook.

I don't like MP. She doesn't really care about other people. MB is stupid.

Why don't I ever write in this book? School is OK. This year went by so fast. I am going to England in 250 days. Am I really going alone? CJ hasn't written to me. I miss her.

Soon I will begin another theme book. I wonder if I should use that marble one.

Note:
I don't remember this. And I never drank warm milk to sleep. I thought it tasted awful. I guess I also thought it sounded like something a cultured person would do, so I wrote it in here.

October 27, 1975 In which I contemplate the future Dona

Monday
11:oo pm

Needless to say, I haven't written for a long time. One month! I want to finish this before the new year. I wonder what it will be like, looking back at this mixed-up journal in twenty years. I've gone from age 16 to 19 in these few pages. From my first real boyfriend to my fiance . This journal has traveled with me on the farthest journey I've ever been away from home and it's always been at my side. I don't know if I've ever slept anywhere without it. And what do I have to show? Not much writing, I'll grant that.

Will this stuff interest me in years hence? Will I say, "Oh, yes I remember Jeremy, I thought I was in love with him" or "Oh Jeremy, remember this?" Que sera sera whatever will be will be.

I haven't even mentioned I'm working at Zayre. Nothing much to say on that subject -- it's money.

I'm going back to England this summer. I am, that is, if I can keep the money. I don't know about myself and my debts. Soon though that money will build up and up in the account and I will be rich.

Note:
Don't recall writing this, but I do recall wondering what future selves would think of my journals.

Zayre - I was a jewelry clerk. Zayre was like K-Mart. I sold costume jewelry.

I did get to England that summer. Airfare must have been low or I was a pretty good saver.

Regarding Zayre: From Wikipedia: (this is classic as we said back then)

Regarding Zayre: From Wikipedia:The original name of the company was "Zayre Gut," which means "very good" in Yiddish. Not having enough money to pay for a sign that included both words, ownership instead installed the first word "ZAYRE" to the front of their building with the intentions of adding the "GUT" later. However, the company became branded as "ZAYRE" and the owners feared that adding the second half of the name might confuse customers.

September 27, 1975 In which I lose my temper and rearrange my room.

I'm nineteen. One year older than my last entry. That was just fort he record. I've just written in my English journal. It's a hard thing to do -- keeping two journals and a journal letter. Never mind.

I had a bad start to a pretty good day. Jeremy's present came -- broken. I screamed and called him stupid for not wrapping it better and saying how better I was because I wrapped his present better. Then, after I cooled down I looked at the gift. It was beautiful -- two little bunnies in bed. One asleep and one wide awake. I thought how I could fix it and three hours later had it pretty much repaired. Then I came up to my room and found (in the attic) the mirror "shadow box" and put it up and put all my "knick-knacks" on it. Then I changed my room around because I wanted room for my poster that had to be moved because of the shadow box. Anyway, my room is in an uproar.

Note:
I remember that day well. I think most of my family remembers it too, including my cousin Bob. I had a helluva temper back then.

I, just now, spent 20 minutes searching in the newall for the ceramic rabbits in bed figurine, but didn't locate it. I wanted to post a photo. It is 30+ years old after all. And I still have it. Somewhere.

August 18, 1975 In which I write about Jeremy

Saturday

Why can't I write in here regularly. It is not because I don't have lots of time.

Twenty-three days have passed since the latest entry. Jeremy drew the unicorn during those final two weeks. I think I had been upset about my room or something. Jeremy is gone now. He left August 9th at 9:30 pm.

The bus station was a riot. They -- Jeremy and Neil -- were supposed to leave at 8:05 and they didn't leave until 9:30.

The pictures are still at the Nelson's. I am hoping they come soon.

I am trying to gather enough courage to get a job. I need one. There is no doubt about that. If Idon't get to England next summer Jeremy will never forgive me.

Note:
While I don't remember writing this or the bus station, I do remember photos of the bus station. I remember Neil. I'm not sure who he stayed with, but it might have been Sue Burkart.

I don't recall needing a job, but since I ended up getting one, I guess I did.

July 26, 1975 In which I think about Jeremy leaving

Saturday

I've just counted the days til Jeremy leaves. Fourteen was the number that came up. I'm more frightened of the actual day than being lonely afterwards. I think my mother is trying to tell me something so I'll be off.

Note:
I remember dreading the end of our visits so much that the last few days were ruined by it. My mom said it was to prepare each other for our eventual deaths. Gee, thanks Mom.

The Unicorn drawing was done by Jeremy. I was a big fan of Unicorns back then. (along with most other teenaged girls I imagine)

Friday, July 25, 1975 In which I think about the passing of time.

Jeremy is down playing pool with Mark Olson. This is probably the first time we've been apart long enough for me to write a lot.

Trouble is is that I haven't much to write.

The time has gone fast. I guess I knew it would -- I remember that I once had a philosiphy that time goes on no matter what the instance or feeling.

Note:
I think my philosophy was more like, time goes on at the same pace, no matter the instance or feeling.

Wednesday, July 23, 1975 In Which I cater to a male ego.

I have just catered to a male ego by losing a game. I wanted to win yet I wanted to lose more -- because I knew that Jeremy would be put down if he lost. I didn't let him win -- shear fate helped him win.

He is in the bathroom now -- he's just flushed the toilet. I'm going to have to stop.

Note:
So did I let him win or not? Either I did or didn't, cannot be both. I don't remember that game, but I do remember losing a checkers game to my cousin Jim once on purpose. It was unimportant to me and important to him, I suppose.