| still at home volume 3 part 3 - 1960 august-december | work & days: a lifetime journal project |
Aug 13th 1960 The brown envelope Judy handed me was The One I had waited for for those 6 weeks since the end of June. She walked into the kitchen, shaking raindrops off her pony-tail, and then, while I held my breath, pulled a bundle of mail from under her red jacket. I grabbed for it, but she held on. Before I could protest tho', she triumphantly waved that big envelope at me. I rushed to the bedroom with it. Judy followed. "Go 'way!" I told her frantically. "I want to count your tears" she said flippantly. The push I gave her left her halfway across the kitchen. I went back to my envelope. "Epp Elfreda Helen" said the address. Down below it in the left hand corner, was the name of Atthority: "Government of Alberta Department of Education Edmonton, Alberta" I ripped it open, impatiently, and ripped a white piece of paper inside with it. Like Jack Horner, I stuffed my paw inside and pulled out - letdown! Two pamphlets. I tryed again. There was my diploma, and there was half of that white sheet of paper, with a typewritten list in purple ink. I noticed the jagged, slanting edge where my hurry had torn it. My heart raced with my eyes, down that column of figures. I couldn't believe it. So I read it again, slowly.
The repetition stunned me. Maybe there was a mistake. Something. Mom was sitting down for once, leaning against the grey back of her chair. I rushed through to her, instinctively, I guess. I shoved it over her shoulder in front of her face. "It can't be!" I said. She looked at it for a short moment and said, with just enough awe in her voice, "Not a single A in it. Only H's" Daddy detached himself from the jet stream of Mr. McKeeman's conversation, to look over her shoulder. The other kids were already there. I felt terrific. I looked at my diploma again. "This is to certify that: Epp Elfreda Helen has completed and is entitled to admission to Senior High School .... " It was signed by Mr. Halborg. Near the top between two rows of flourishes and little yellow flowers and Alberta's crest, it stated broadly, "Junior High School - Honours - diploma" That small gold word between the beginning and end of the title is the most beautiful word on the document! I can do things! This is success! Oh it is such a load off my mind! I would have felt awful if I hadn't gotten honors, but these exquisite, fabulous, marvellous, breath taking, "H's"!! I was so afraid I'd let Mr Mann down .... I would have hated that. Actually, I was more afraid of disappointment for him than I was for me! it seems almost too good to be really true. No more worrying! I did make it! now he'll be able to say I-told-you-so, and strut a little because of me. I'm so glad! And I will be Mr Dycks honor student, instead of only his "allmost honors" girl. Its so exhilarating - I didn't do all that studying for nothing! This is just a wisper, but - I even have a chance for the governor Generals! I'm terribly happy - I made it! .... I MADE IT! August 14 I took some more pix and some of me. August 15 Earlier than we expected them, Gramps, Grandma, Auntie Anne, Uncle Harvey. They brought lots of stuff. August 17 We went to Baksteads and to the old homestead. August 18 Gramp and Gram and Co left - we finished up another watermelon almost before the smoke had cleared. August 20 The most contriversial man in the family and I - the King and I - had a tiff today. It started early - he was scolding Mom for cutting most of the fat off the meat. He wanted us to have to eat it, but she knew it would be a waste, so she saved it for frying purposes. She was right, of course. So I - oh, so presumingly! - added my insignificant small words of explainations as to how animal fat is not benefical to our bodies, etc - all stuff I read about last night - and Mom put in her feeble explaination of motives too. She was so meek! Father began to get irrational. I was questioning his superior knowledge! I - a mere tot! Daring to challenge his wisdom! He began to get louder, and repeated several un-understandible German phrases, turning up the volume each time around. I felt cool as a lettuse leaf I don't know why, but during the whole tirade, I felt nothing but amusement and a small pang of pity for the man who has so little. So Mom obligingly told Rudy to eat his fat up. "I won't!" he said. "Yes you will. Now eat it." Mom was firm. Daddy was very loud. "No! Rudy don't eat that fat. It's not good for you!" he roared; turning to Mom, he asked vibratingly, "Why make the child eat something that's not good for him?!" "Eddy," Mom put in, while he got his breath. The amusement in her voice was forced, I think. "You said it wasn't good for him. Why do you make him eat it now?" His voice was at the point of hysteria, completely irrational, beserk. I was reflecting detachedly on "how strange are men" "Its part of the bowing and scraping," I said in an undertone to Judy. He couldn't possibly have understood me. He turned his fury on me then. I felt no fear, no awe, no respect. Only wonder at such a revelation of such incongruence. And amusement. "You - you," he went on to tell me all about my sins, the greatest of which is having independence of thought, I suppose. Actually, I can't remember what he said, besides that if I don't stop having the last word all the time, he'd take me out to the woodpile and hit me until I was black and blue - not for discipline, but pure rage, I know; and "Who do you think you are anyway?" - that's his favorite question. I remember thinking, detachedly, You have so very little. and now you are losing your athority on all things. It is painful, isn't it? And you will fight, childishly and desperately, anyone whom you can, who is young and weak enough not to count. And not only do you have so little, but you are so little. How can I fear you? How can I love you? How can I do anything but be amused by such childishness in a man, but be saddened by the knowledge that you have lost your joy of life thru' this, but be moved to pity by the tragedy of warped minds? To love you impulsively is too much to ask isn't it? You are struggling against things in yourself - not against us - but against yourself. But you can never win, because you are blind, because you cannot recognize your own enemy. Now - I - who will not shelter you from yourself - am touched with your hatred because you think I am your enemy. Because I will not bow and scrape. Mom does - she has lived with you too long to have a backbone instead of a wish bone. But is she right in pampering you? Could there be no possibility that you could be shown why you feel such resentment, ever? I am afraid not. You can beat me, father, as much as you like, but it would settle nothing "once and for all" because you could not beat out my mind or my freedom. Soon, I'll be gone, I can't help you, (do I even really want to?) and after that you will be merely a remembered lesson. August 22 I took "The Virginian" out to the berry patch with me and really caused a riot when Mom found out about it. August 23 While Uncle, Aunt, Judy Paul Mom picked blueberries I babysat and cooked dinner. August 25 I drove tractor - disking - for three hours, then put on the G-goo because I wanted to feel like a girl. August 27 Got my first own developed film back - my pix is so-so. August 28 For once we took off from Church and went for a jaunt to Peoria and the Smoky river - where we found chokecherries and sand. August 29 The chokecherry jelly is yummy - we made some today. September 4 Mr Block's first sermon on Loving God - the choir didn't sound awful bad. Evidently I stare at the ceiling too much - " show too much of the whites" of my eyes. September 6 School again - I'm glad. We have very little work. Mr Block is a good guy but pokey! September 7 Had to make supper at our summer place so went home on the little bus. September 10 It's a hot, beautiful day. Took 3 more pictures and finished that roll. [creek spruce, Paulie, Judy, Judy on the grass] Sept 13 I would like to know - why? Why have I got this bleak, hopeless mood in me that keeps returning in attacks like malaria? What is it? Why am I particularly susceptible? And what is it in me that responds so readily to a suggestion of depression? Why do I feel as tho' I would like to shun all people and only sit and read? And then when I am left alone my heart cries because I feel shunted out of the way, and unwanted. So in a mood like this - solitude and sociality are both not what I want because neither are satisfying. I am lonely anyway. Tomorrow initiation begins. And on Friday night there is a party. I won't be at either. Because we are to wear tights and sweaters, with only baby dolls over. And I am just not brave enough! how can I? I can't, I just can't, because I could never wear only tights I [blotch] spend the whole day dripping tears [illegible] text-books. - I left off there, in a mental state of [illegible] my mind turned to hope and, because of the company of Mrs Block perhaps, I was too busy and un-caring to finish that beginning. Now it doesn't matter. I can't write it because of that. And that doesn't matter either. Did you notice that I was hedging, even with myself, for the reason of my depression? It was fear of the looks, the eyes, on my leg, and the complete baring of what I cannot bear to even admit myself at times. Isn't it pequliar that even after all these years of living with myself and my handicap, I can never entirely accept it. It surprises me - I cannot believe that I am limited by it. Maybe this is good. Because if I do not believe it, perhaps Perhaps it will not be true. I am so naïve is it the way it should be or should I face what I often call "it", even to myself, and say - "you cannot expect this" and "you cannot do that" because of "it." That might be honest, it might be the truth, but it might be suicide to peace of mind, ambitions, and content - I'm not an epic giant. I don't dare take the chance. And I have proven that until now, my method is effective. Because I have so much, even for a normal unblemished person. I have my mind. I know it can do more for me than beautiful legs .... For I have an honours standing - the top five percent of Alberta students - and perhaps the governor general's medal as well. This is rumor, but there are possibilities of truth to it too: I am tied with a Beaverlodge girl for the G.G. and who knows? - But that's rumor, don't forget. And I will never worry about passing an exam because there is no doubt. Of course I will. Now I am editor of the yearbook. And it will be a good yearbook too. it means prestige to me and is recognition of literary talent, and a continuance of tradition. [Myrt, Henry, Gerald] And I have Reiner. It is strange, even in a confident mood, to think that he is still there, and perhaps even closer to me than he has ever been. I wish I could see him more often, to be sure that he will stay the way he was, and perhaps still is .... To "love" him in a real, un-stomped, way instead of long distance affection. Affection is what it is - playful liking, motherliness, sex, awareness, and loneliness really - but when I think of him when I'm alone, and when I want him very near, I say I love you I love you I love you, even tho' I know I mean, basically I'm crazy about you, I miss you, I miss holding your hand smiling at you and knowing that as I smile you follow my smile with your eyes and you think of me as a small thing, a female thing, a warm, loveable thing like my blue rabbit. The rabbit "my" Reiner sent to me yesterday, all wrapped in pink tissue paper with a note attached to its pink felt ears and shiny button nose all perky. With love from Reiner to Ellie .... And I love it. Sometimes when my cheek is lying against its funny head, I think of Reiner and feel compelled to hold my breath, mouth against the fluffy neck, as long as I can, smelling and feeling some faint, undefinably masculine touch. I have a guy who sends me blue and pink rabbits! If it was not for him, I don't know what I could do to explain my dateless Saturday nights. But there is Reiner, who loved - loves ? - me, and as long as I can know he likes me enough to write every week and send enchanting furry bunnies for no reason at all except "A lot of the nurses are getting them so I thought it would be all right for a little nurse-to-be too", I don't care if I never go anywhere on any and every Saturday night. Once Reiner said "I'm getting older. Your getting older too." And he is right .... Here I am, fifteen years old, and an average - no matter that I don't like the idea - teenager. And I begin to understand desire. If my mother knew tho' she would probably send me to a convent; but it is inevitable. And I'm glad it is too, because I do not want to miss anything, not even sex, in my life. And I want to understand this, so I am not going to be prudish. If I knew for a fact that the world would end in maybe a year or two, I would think about getting married - to R.K. of course - and end my life on a honeymoon. Rather a pleasant thought! Black nightgowns, and warm arms, etc. No more loneliness. No more pillows substituting for his shoulder or his chin or his cheek. And now, when I see him next I would like to reach out my hands to his and then walk slowly into his arms and kiss his tanned, lean, chin. Touché! Later Recently, there is something new in me, something too big and alarming and aggressive to be ignored. It is not good. I resent being bossed. I hate rules. I hate it when Mom says "don't ever do it again". I don't like Mr Block. I don't like rules. I don't even like school. I loved school, last year. Now I am listless all day. Bored. Lazy. I can't seem to be interested or enthusiastic. I can't want to do my best. I just don't care what I get, even tho' I still dis-like being beaten. But most of all I resent and struggle against being bossed. Sept 15 Stayed home and turned domestic in spite of my cold - baked bread and made bean soup!! I look sick, Mr Rycroft said! And I do - horrible! September 16 The last threshing today! I drove tractor, shoveled the grain, and enjoyed it lustily. Choir practice - Daddy made me go. September 19 Indian Summer. September 22 Gobbled up a whole half jar of blue-berries (half to Judy) while we were home alone. (Top Secret) I wish this pen wouldn't blur so. Pop's in a raging mood. September 23 We practiced our thanksgiving song today in Choir practice - One to-be-thankful-for-item is - we have a radio battery at last, music and new voices. September 24 I rode to L.G. to get the mail, and the wind was West and very windy! Oof! But today, we've been listening to real music again! Oct 3, Mon. My yesterday's high hopes were hoped to soon and too hard, and in vain. For I have failed. I am runner up. Second best. Oh, it does hurt. And then I say to myself - "if you will be only second best, why try?" and then my stern, sensible self chides, "Ellie! You have to try! You must do your best, even if you will fail. But why put the sacrifice and hope and the sweat into something, when I will probably fail, perhaps miserably, perhaps by a fine-line? Because I keep saying "maybe ". But what will happen to me when I finally learn that there is no "maybe"? The Fuss is being raised, childishly, because I did not get something I wanted. Because someone else got a candy and I didn't. Because somebody got a whole apple and I only got a slice. Because the girl from Beaverlodge got the Governor General's medal. Oh Ellie! Learn not to be so hopeful, so confident, so cocky! Grow up, even if it does hurt, because it will hurt less on the whole if you do. Stop hoping, stop believing in yourself, stop trying - No, I don't mean that. I don't want to stop. I would hate myself if I did. What is second best to some is failure to me - I can't help feeling that way about it. And who is that girl? A pretty, light-hearted, facinating girl with beautiful legs? If my mind is not enough, then what will I do? What will I do? I found out today, in a general conversation. Donna just said, "It was between Elfreda and this girl, and the other girl got it." And then I knew. I was too numbed to say a word. What could I have said, even if I could have spoken? Nobody thought it strange. Everything seemed normal. But I froze inside, and walked out quickly, to a mirror, to see if disappointment had made me suddenly beautiful. And even in this crisis, lipstick helped. Pink lipstick in a brown face with dark eyes. And that was all. Not beautiful. When I walked back into the room, I stayed a small ways from the rest and huddled on the register, leaning my head against the glass, feeling apart from, and by, myself, not caring how naked my dejection was. Only once, Bernice leaned over and said, "you look lonesome," and Janeen just looked at me curiosly. I murmered, "do I?", and leaned back into, but away from, myself, feeling patheticly pleased to be remembered. Oh, I am so petty, and so sorry for myself, and now, a runner-up. Hey, that's a good title for a story! "The runner-up", about an almost-success. An almost-success like me; a little bit bitter, a little bit miserable, but a little bit hopeful anyway. Oct. Seven, Saturday Oh Ellie! You Goose, you giddy little goose! I think you must love melancholy - you did grovel in it so luxuriantly last entry! But at least you were honest, when you said you were hopeful anyway, because I am convinced that you only half believed you were only second best, in the first place. I take it all back, Ellie. Don't stop being hopeful; learn to be more confident; be a little cocky if it helps; believe in yourself, and never, never, never stop trying. I feel a little silly, anti-climaxical, after that raving, stomping, roaring, sad-sack, drip-dry, sob-story I wrote on Monday. Because I did, after all, get the governor General's Bronze medal. And I am happy too, but in a restrained way. Maybe because I was, after all, expecting it for a long time, in a sort of way. I feel so pleased because Mr Mann is so pleased and Mr Dyck will be, too, when he finds out. Mr. Mann was here while we were eating, and Mrs Mann too. Mr Mann just walked in, in an old greenish jacket, lean and black-and-white haired, with his small dark eyes, his narrow nose, the jutting-out of straight hair on the back of his head, his small head and long, bony legs. He just walked towards me, put his hands around my neck. "I should strangle you," he said. And then he put his arms around me, and hugged me in his warm way, with his pride and exuberance, and happiness in it. It was wonderful. He is wonderful. I almost worship that man, and will as long as I can remember his warmth and affection and magnetism. I wish he was my father So there I was, nibbling foolishly on my bread and butter, in the midst of Saturday night chaos with Mr Mann leaning, as he used to lean against the register in our room, against the cupboard and Mrs. Mann perched on the arm of the big chair beside Mom. The cat chose this exact time to glide into the house through the hole in the window, looking as regal as if it had been a gold plated cat-gate. The lamp was in a half bright, half-dull mood, and all of supper was still on the table. I was in my blue jeans and black sweater, that, because of some improvement in my figure, gave me a young-girls-body look. The thing I remembered best is the taste of the fresh bread with its crisp crusts, sogging with yellow butter. Strange. When the letter came this afternoon, on October Seventh, Nineteen Sixty, at ten past six, P.M., I was up to my elbows in soapy water. So I didn't even look through my letters for a while. I knew Reiner's letter would be there anyway. But when I saw the long white envelope addressed to me, I began to say, "Oh no, not those conversation studies people again!" because I've been getting ads from them regularly, but then I saw the return address, "Minister of Education, Alberta" "Elfreda Helen Epp! Your official name!" Mom said. I ripped off the end of it, slowly, calmly. "It's to say that I'm second best," I said, but hoped silently. I stared at it, not reading intelligently, until Mom took it away and glanced over the first paragraph. "You did it!" she said. "You got it!" There was just a small bedlam then. I have even got a letter on an official Government House stationary now! And later I'll have to write Mr Vanier a letter to say thank you. You know what? I hope, when I see him next, that Mr Dyck hugs me too!! October 12 I have the small warmth of the beginning not blaze, but flicker, of glory now. Mr Ray talked to me once, and said they had known all along that I'd get it. Mr Block, on Tuesday morning, shook hands with me and the whole class "gave me a hand." It was tremendously uncomfortable. And neighbours, teachers, acquaintances, have said "good for you." "Congradulations." Maybe the best and the worst, for like a blaze, laud has its hot, sticky minutes - is still to come. October 15th 10:05 P.M. Another Night-note on a Saturday. I had fun. I went to a wedding. I went to Madeleine's wedding. I wasn't going to, but then I realized that I could get the Saturday mail if I did, so I did! And I'm glad, because I was pretty, and gregarious and happy. During the wedding I was itching to write down some impressions but Mrs Voth was beside me and I knew she'd read ev'ry word I wrote, so I didn't. There was a pretty pink and gold soloist on the platform with the nicest mouth and a husky semi-contralto voice. At the reception, I walked over and talked to her. She wasn't to easy to talk to - but so pretty! And then, the - groan - reception line I managed to march past the mother and father of the bride, then shook hands with the bridesmaid and Madeleine and Hartley (whom I smiled at) The best-man, a tall young-looking guy who looked far away was next. I don't think he even saw me. "Hey! Aren't you shaking hands?!" I asked with a big smile. He saw me, 'way down there, then, put on a big, spontaneous grin, stuck out his hand, and said, "hi!: And after, whenever he caught my eye, he smiled at me. I like him! During the meal, squashed between Marg. Thompson and a little McBrian boy, I read my letters. Vera's first, and then the one from 9643-81 Ave. It must have looked funny - I talked for a while, then, over my coffee, just as if I had been at the breakfast table, I opened some letters and laughed - aloud! - through them! There was a picture in R.K.'s letter - one of him. Jeepers, Peter Koblotsky's little brother is really growing up! Every picture I get of him he looks better than he did on the last one. He's a dear. He really is. And I am nuts about him! .... What else should I tell about? Oh, Martha Friesen talked to me about him afterward she asked if I had been writing him she said she thought I must have because I knew his telephone address. And she said she always saw him around at the hospital. So that's news from home. I talked to Don T. for a moment when he was all alone, and Buck and Mrs Atkinson congradulated me. Boy it sure isn't staying a secret! When I was sitting outside afterwards, Buck came out and talked to me. Some people stared. Ruth came out. "Have enough to eat, Ruthie?" I asked. She just stood and looked me up and down, from my toes to my just washed-today hair. I couldn't help laughing! But that was typical, only adults do a bit of camoplaging - whoops, what a spelling goof! I like Buck in some ways. He's always easy to talk to. But a bit funny. I'd never go with him! Anyway, he did have some disallusions, but I think I did straighten him out. He - I think this is really true - thought I had a minor crush on him because I am always friendly to him and not to the guys he's with. (In this case Jake and Henry. I've given up on them!) But I pulled out a picture of Reiner and said "What do you think of this?" "Not bad lookin'" he said. (!!Nice! I'm glad he agrees with me .... !) "This your boyfriend?" "Yup" I said. "Where's he from ?" "Edmonton." "Did you meet him in the hospital?" "Mm-hmm." I guess he was a little nonplussed. And then I added to that by asking his advice on what to get R. for his eighteenth birthday (a month from yesterday) Yippee. And all this is why I'm glad I went. Sunday October 16 Anna D is here [eight-year-old daughter of parents' visitors], and as always, is duty-bound to say something that shouldn't but does - crash my mood. We were looking over my typing course - "What are you going to be Elfreda?" she asked. "A nurse!" "A nurse?! - with your sore leg?!" "Yes. Why shouldn't I?" She retreated, not knowing what to say then, but came up with, "But you look so funny when you walk! And then, a Nurse yet!" I was peeved but bounced back with, "Well, Anna, I know for sure something you won't be - a diplomat!" "What's that?" "Someone who is very tactful." Judy laughed, and I did too. Even Anna did, tho' she didn't know what I was talking about. I want to tell her to ask her mother, when she gets home, what tact is. Not because I want her to know, but because I want her mother to tell her - explain to her - that she must not say things like that to me. even if it is sheilding me - maybe that is good for me, but now the confident, spritely, mood I was in this morning is replaced with a hard voice saying over and over, "You look so funny when you walk." Monday October 17 "Seventeenth Summer" by Maureen Daly - that's what happened today. And I can say "happened" because it was an experience - an emotional experience. A story about first love, and first dates, and first kisses; and a story about tenderness and understanding and emotions. A story about Reiner and me. I read it during school, but did not dare finish it there because I was expecting to cry at the sad, sad end. So I finished it on the bridge in the frosty sighing of autumn and under the bare branches of trees. I read it slowly and very distinctly, trying to feel it, as if it was Reiner and me instead of Jack and Angie. There was a knot in my stomache every time he kissed her, but I did not cry. Not ever nearly. And I kept thinking, oh I know how it is! I know how it is when there is that silent, desperate, sobbing inside of you and you can't believe that this is the end. And I know good-byes too, altho' they have never been like Angies. When I said good-bye to Reiner in Edmonton, it wasn't like that because I wasn't in love with him then. But I am now - oh, just as much as I can be! But still, he was in love with me then, and I remember how it was: the way his arm tightened around me when I looked at his watch, and the empty look in his eyes, and the way he didn't want to go home for the last time. Now, everytime Jack kissed Angie, it was Reiner kissing me, and every time Angie trembled, it was me trembling, and when Jack said, "I'm in love with you, Angie," it was Reiner saying that to me with a tremor in his voice. After that book, everything feels so real, so new. Every sensation is tingling and breathless. Every smell, taste, color, is more - just more. And everything is piquent, poignant, sharp. When I came home, I felt heavy and drained from feeling. I lay down, under Reiner's picture. It is up over my pillow, where I can look at it at night, and when I wake up. It is a new picture that I got on Saturday. He looks like a boy with a warm, smiling mouth, and a chin that can't decide whether to be pointed or square, and dark eyes that follow me always, and a smooth tanned neck above a white tee-shirt and a plaid shirt. Always, he watches me and smiles. Sometimes, I lie there and talk to him in my heart. I say, "Reiner, why are you smiling? Are you laughing because I care about you so much?" This afternoon, I wanted to just lie, not looking at the picture but knowing it was there, feeling and thinking. I wrote, about the book, in my letter. I want him to read it and feel like Jack, and feel all I have felt, reading it. I want his heart to beat faster, as mine did whenever he touched her hand, or leaned his face against his cheek. I guess, I want us to be like that. Lying there, trying to scoop up all the impressions I could, like a television aerial, I could feel my breath filling my chest and then going away, leaving me flat and breathless. If I held my breath too long, I could feel a lurching, jerky, heart-beat inside, and I could hear it bumping, solidly, but like a piece of raw liver, against my ribs. Oh I miss him so much .... I don't know when I'll ever see him again There are so many things I want to write - I want to tell him how I think about him all the time and how sharp my missing him is - How everything reminds me of him, and how I hope he feels the same way about me - I think he does. I wish he was here so that he could tell me And how, every [time] when I am at a wedding, I wonder how the bride and groom feel, and I wonder if it I the way we feel, sometimes. October 18 Mom left @ 10 for the 11:15 PM bus to Edmonton, Calgary, and the Banff Convention for the Home and School Association. October 19 The season's first SNOW. it all melted right away, tho', so there is mud. We are enjoying batching, good food - apples and stuff. No potatoes! October 21 A half-holiday because of a sewer flood so I had lots of time to make a really good supper - lemon pudding with meringue, mashed potatoes, peas and bologna casserole. October 21
- The first sonnet I ever wrote - and I did have a struggle getting it to fit into its rhythmic and line-length boundaries! Strangely, I wrote it in July, of all times. It just sort of evolved out of a dreamy afternoon, so there it is and what do you think of it? Not much. I like alliterating and stuff, but it doesn't mean much. Goodness knows, this last summer was anything but magic, the only sorcery being a pair of brown eyes that were around for a little while. But it's pretty words strung togeather in a properly disciplined 14-line, ababcdcdeffegg pattern so - it's a sonnet! October 22 I'm quite disgruntled because we had baked apples with whipped cream for supper and an ultra-special desert yesterday and Pop never said a word about it. October 23 Even tho' Mom came home and I wrote Reiner, this was a miserable, I-hate-Father day. I made cracks. He got mad. My pie crust was tough. Bawled once or twice. October 24 A horrible Social test tomorrow and am reading Two Solitudes. October 26 Now is almost midnight, and it is going to be a soft, tingling midnight, because it has snowed. I stepped out of the door, onto the sidewalk, and my feet sank into the two inches of meltiness and luxury that is this first snow. Now the world, our still, complacent, pipe-smoking, world will feel strongly relieved because when there is cold and wind, there will be snow too, and it will be Winter. Today was beautiful and warm. Tonight is even more beautiful, and strange as it is, the snow pressed down by our bare feet is warm and sensual too. I rushed back in to tell Judy. And looking out of our window, past my own big-eyed reflection, I could see the pattern of dull white covering the branches and herring-boning their shadows, and the shadow of the night. Then both of us, bare-foot and browned, our legs and arms bare, rushed out to feel the good snow under our searching insoles. We touched it exhileratedly, and threw it into the air, capering in the fresh snow at nearly midnight. And we were glad. I don't know why. November 3rd Evening D.J. I have a problem. Thats not news! And this is no different problem from anyone elses. In fact, its so ordinary that a Dear Abby letter like this one could state it exactly. "A boy I like very much is having a birthday this month. Should I get him a present? If so, what? He gave me a book for my birthday, and a cuddly blue rabbit for just no reason at all." I know what I want to get him - an identification bracelet. One with heavy silver links and his name on the front. Its something personal and close - he'd wear it all the time, and he'd sleep with his cheek on it. When he had his sleeves rolled up, pushing the food waggons, he'd look down and see it on his brown wrist and think of me. It would be very private, and a "just-between-us-darling" sort of thing. And of course, there's another reason - a myschievous one If I gave him his identification bracelet, all the girls he takes out would look at it longingly, but he wouldn't let them wear it because it came from me! It's a naughty idea, .... but nice. I did send for an identification bracelet. $1.29. If only I had some money or some ideas! Because this is the very first present I'll ever give any boy, and it is supposed to be very special. But a $1.29, cheap-looking, just a little tarnished gold - not silver - identification bracelet is just not special! So what can I do? I can't send it back - it's engraved. I could keep it and wear it occasionally when Mom couldn't see it but it would be almost like wearing somebody elses wedding ring when you are an old maid I know he'd like it anyway, but I can't send it! He's so important .... I don't want to send him something that's only second best - and I want to give him something because I don't want him to think I care about him only to the greeting-card extent. But I will probably end up giving him a card - expensive if possible, and not gift. But I want to give him something! Something he can think of the way I think of my rabbit and "The Diary of a Young Girl." Something I can write "To Reiner, with love" on in a reckless so-what-if-I-am-being-sentimental gesture. Just some thing he can keep and look at later, and remember me by. He knows this won't be forever just as well as I do. That's why he wrote .... " to remember me by" on the flyleaf of my birthday present. I don't want to take only - I have given him intangibles just as he has given me intangibles, but I want to give him something he can touch. That is very important - the touching. Because when we are young, a touch is something new and wonderful. Jasmine West said it much better than I can in "Love is Not What You Think." She said, so knowingly, "It begins for the young girl most delicately and tentatively. When she first leans, with her whole being, toward a boy - she, never before touched for touch's sake - the boy's finger lightly brushing her wrist, encircles it with fire and flowers." - Fire and flowers - I like that. it's the perfect phrase. Jessamyn West wrote "Cress Delehanty" too - remember it? To return to the subject, a bracelet would never encircle his wrist with fire or flowers, but it would be more like a warm and affectionate thought. Oh! Jassamyn West also said something else - It's strange - I wonder, is it true? I'd like to ask Reiner. "The life of a man is shaped by the girl he imagines; the girl he embraces, he forgets. But women are more earthy. With her it is not to touch and go, but to touch and stay." I never thought that to be true - I was sure it was the fleshyness - the sex - that was love to him, not the spirituality And isn't love, to a woman, more emotion and gentleness than sex? I wonder if she is right? It is a new thought. I know, a touch is a great deal to me. But it is to him - Reiner - too. I remember very well how hard and fast his heart was beating that Monday morning - and it was completely daylight all I was doing was leaning against him, and he had his arm around me. But his heart was pounding loud enough to be plainly heard. His last letter was a laughing, affectionate, and tender one. But it did not come on Saturday, even tho' it was post-marked Friday. I wasn't home on Saturday or Sunday, so I asked Lorraine to get our mail when she went down-town at recess. She came in late - I was tense. There were letters in her hand - three for us. but not from him, none of them. "There's more in the hall," she said. I was shaky as I asked "may I go out and get an encyclopedia?" Mr. Black said "all right." I leafed through the mail on the ledge desperately. Hopingly. But it wasn't there. I got an encyclopedia, took it back to my desk, and leafed through it to make it look good. But I couldn't concentrate. I was worrying, almost like a wife! And I felt strange, and restless and churned up. But I got the mail after school on Tuesday, half afraid, but it was there - very warm and gay. I could not help smiling, and I laughed aloud while I read it walking home. P.S. Nov 10 - In the letter I got on Tuesday, he told me he had been worried when my letter didn't come on Wednesday! And I saw by the date stamp (post mark) that he had mailed it in time for it to come on Saturday but something happened. It's so incredible that we feel so exactly alike. I think, daringly, that maybe, when he is looking at my picture in his room, he gets that strange feeling and puts his head down on his arms the way I do. And I wonder if he necks with his pillow? Or if he just lies quietly against it, thinking of me. some nights, only now and then, I feel hot blooded enough to really neck, but usually I lie against his chest, just over his heart, with his cheek on my hair, and then I go to sleep, with the blue rabbit under my chin. November 5 Today, while i was snitching some nuts, mom banged me with the bread knife and cut my hand. Then she ripped my peasant blouse! November 10th At the beginning of this book, I described a detailed home-and-school meeting where I got my clock - that was a long time and honors mark and a G.G. medal between - but now there was a repeat performance. I love Mr Mann - he presented me with an honour pin. I love Mr Dyck. In fact, I loved him enough to spend all of the lunch period yakking with him in the hall! He - dig this! - was telling me his troubles. We had a long and serious-hilarious talk - he was a blue streak on Sexsmith problems. I asked him the questions I've wanted to for a long time - "You know, you do like to find out what makes people tick, don't you?" - he didn't give me any direct answer. What I would like to do is be on the same bus as him some time or something like that, so we could talk for a long time, about him. I think I'd really get a charge out of taking his mind apart, semi-color, by semi-colon, by question mark, and spreading all the pieces out in front of me so I could classify all of it and tag it with little red ribbons. He asked me to do something for him - write a 150 word essay on anything that interested me. Maybe I will - How I got gabbing with him was this way - I was talking to Russell in the hall, and he marched out of the lab with coffee in one hand and a cake-sandwich napkin in the other. So I raised my eyebrows at him, and he marched over, hugged me delicately, because of the coffee and the cake, and said "Hel-lo Sugar!" I said, "Hi honey!" He said, "You did wonderfully!" So we started gabbing and didn't stop until long after all the lunch was gone. I, incidentally, ate Peter's cake, but Rusty got him more. So while we talked, legs went by, people laughed inside the room and the coffee dwindled to a last drop. We talked. Mr Andruski - I don't love him, but I do feel genially inclined to him - handed me an envelope. The governor general's medal - not much of a presentation or anything - just a dinky Home-and-School meeting with no photographers beside Mr. Block. And Mr. Mann made the Honors pin award - No lavish speech this time - he just said "You all know how I feel about Elfreda." While he was talking, I winked at Oswald, who was enormously tickled. Afterwards, I sat on a desk, where I could watch the whole room [?] in its reflection. Mr Ray I don't love. He wouldn't say one word to me all evening, but I couldn't dislike him at all because he had on a new suit and looked terrifidaculously sharp. Smooth black hair, Latin eyes and mouth, long, slender, black covered body with sure, well-shaped hands. I wish I could know him. I wonder if it could ever be possible? I'll have to campaign. Wouldn't it have been nice to talk lingeringly to him in one of the dark empty rooms? Our rooms were strange, shadowed, remote, tidy places. The windows were edged with snow, and the moonlight was as cool and frost-touched as the air outside. In a room like that there is a vast aloneness. Tonight, even in me there was one corner of that aloneness. The last time, there was no aloneness - I was warm and thinned and spread to the ends of the earth. Today, I had contracted - just one corner - into a solitude. Mr. Dyck could have gone into that solitude and warmed it, but he was not in the right mood. Evidently, he did enjoy our gab tho' - he could lose some school tension, and anyway, I'm an old, very good, friend of his. When somebody asked him where he'd been, he said "Out in the hall, talking to my best girl." That sounds good. In a way, the touch of speciallness between us is still there. I would have missed it if it had been gone. Still another part of me would break off like the ice from a glacier and float away into my corner of vast aloneness. November 12 Am reading 3 books at once "Uncle Tom's Cabin", "Lorna Doone", and Pauly's new book, "Spirit of Saint Lewis" Judy and I nearly drove Mom beserk from exuberance! November 13 Wore my new blue and brown plaid almost-shag skirt to church to show it off in choir. Mrs Nick Siebert wears such exotic perfume. November 15 You can tell by the date that Reiner's birthday was yesterday. I sent the present only this morning tho. I did send the bracelet, decked out in splashy but pretty happy birthday paper and tied with the narrow green ribbon I used to wear in my hair. Im having qualms now, but only small ones because, after all, the identification bracelet was something personal and warm and besides, the tarnish has vanished from me wearing it every night and all day, Saturdays. It made a light parcel - he's going to think its either cuff links or a tie clip - BUT, the day I give any boy as special as he is anything as entirely common as cuff links will have to be the day I become senile! So, I just hope and hope he does, really and very honestly, like it, very much. He will like it, because I sent it to him, (that sounds bad, like real braggy, but I believe it - does that mean I'm conceited, or merely naïve?) but I want him to be very happy about it. The letter I got today said he'd especially want a Special Eighteenth Birthday Kiss - and he would certainly get one if he was here - maybe even two .... But as it is, I'll have to save it - And then, next time I see him, how will I be able to keep a blushing, bashful, properly distant standard of behavior? Because I'll have so many stashed-away smacks to deliver! Why is it always that when I open one of his letters I hold my breath, afraid that this time the magic will be gone and everything will be over? And why, when I reach for the pile of mail Mrs. Blask hands me, do I feel so afraid until I see the thick-ish envelope with a scrawled "R.Koblotski" in the top left hand corner? I wish I could know whether he feels the same way but I can't ask him, because that is the one thing that's just too intimate. I still wish I could know. But today, I was satisfyed, and completely satisfyed, because he still feels the same way, I'm still his girl, the magic is all there, he said "I Love You" twice! And, altho I chuckled as I read them, those two sentences were like his warm fingers on my cheek - fire and flowers. November 17 Peter D lent me his portable typewriter which is ginchy! November 21 An executive meeting at noon - I''m afraid my committee is a bit dull-minded. Jim told me Gerald said "and she's got a damn good figger on her"! That's me! November 23 Mom baked some Christmas cake - I ate too much and feel awful. November 24 Daddy bought two horses. November 25 There is heaps of powdery snow November 26 Today is different from last day - Today there is no magic - nothing happened, no incident, just a dull bored indifference. I just don't care about him today. Maybe I will tomorrow, but today is a shrug-shoulder day. I hope it doesn't stay that way because I do not like to exist, at almost sixteen! - like a grandmotherly old soul whose pillow is always just a pillow when she lies awake at night - as mine was this morning. I want my magic back. I want to see Reiner and feel myself being female again, in reality, not merely sex. - Ambiguous! What I mean is, I want to feel extra-much like a girl again, more than merely being one. V'standen? Let's see - 3, almost, days till Tuesday. Not very long. By that time it will be okay again. But what if this feeling is a telepathetic (S.W.!) communication? What if he feels that way today, and not only today but tomorrow too?? S'funny: Daddy seems to be unduly concerned abut my love life - not concerned in the way fathers are traditionally supposed to be, but concerned about my lack of it? Today he said, "he isn't writing as often any more, is he?" almost as tho' he was positive Reiner, by now, would be writing only for politeness. But he's not! Or is he? No - he said "I love you," and altho' I do not know exactly what he means by that, I do know it doesn't mean "I'm only writing to be polite now." November 26 Daddy thinks the hosses are good. Mom was in a snappy mood and we could not resist teasing. November 28 This is merely the Monday after Sunday, in which nothing can be expected to happen. I rode the Bay with Daddy in the moonlight. November 30 A perfectly good Lit story was kind of goofed up by Mr Block. How I do wish our cocky, red-headed roostery Mr Dyck was back! December 2 Been asked to help Mrs Seibert with the alto in a double quartet at the Home and School, and on top of that, a solo for Sunday night! December 4 Tremendously cold. My tonite's solo turned into a duet with Mom - shrill but harmonious. December 10 In which I fell off our horse at a "wild gallop" not really, shucks! And I got 2 A's for once in typing lessons [correspondence], and we house cleaned too long for pertness. December 11 The cowboy rode again, at a wild unwanted gallop down the field - He even bucked a little - a very little. I was scared, but pleased. A wicked hoss! December 12 No big experience this year, but I finished "Sea Gulls Woke Me" by Mary Stolz and it was a book I'm glad I lived through, because it was vastly knowing. December 12 It has been different for a while. Perhaps I have grown to another notch on the wall. But now, for these past few days, maybe weeks, I have felt more tranquil, happier, more sure. Some old things have changed. My quixotic "affair" with Reiner is one of them. The sort of stumbling, unsure, always questioning, doubting feeling I had has been changed to a deeply tender affection. I don't know if I love him now and didn't before, or whether I loved him before and don't now, but the way I loved and love is changed. Perhaps it is not so frantic now. Perhaps this is the first step to losing it. I don't know, but I like the way it is now. I feel closer to him. Some of the trembliness isn't there any more but I like him more, in a more tangible way. I don't know why. But that is not all that is different. At school, I can feel my self and my relationship to the people there evolving into something new and satisfying. I feel relaxed, easy, friendly, in my contacts with nearly everybody. It's not so much just an evervescent mood or day, but a longer, lasting-er, easier relationship to everybody. Boys in particular. Some for-instances: Gerald is a good pal. We smile at each other often. We have a good time just talking ordinarily. He's one of my yearbook-ad salesmen, and just a few nights ago he dropped in to tell me, exuberently, that he'd just sold 8 ads, and one of them for a half page! We were "rejoicing and being exeedingly glad" togeather. I was so glad he came! Jim is a good guy! That's one thing I've discovered. He's handsome in that *#! Irish way, and proportioned very neatly. Last Thursday he walked me down to the post office and back, and stayed on the outside of the street, and was perfectly charming. We smile at each other too, sometimes in school. Al is an A-1 pest, but still hard to hate. Even tho' he is enthrallingly wacky, I don't think I could ever get my heart all tangled up with him again. We smile about the same things. He sits and looks at me sometimes, I can always tell when, and then I glance up casually, raise my eyebrows, and we grin at each other perfectly good-humouredly. Its fun! Then there's Burt - he's a funny little guy, but nice enough to joke around with even tho' he could get too serious (asked me to the skating party with him) Fred is awfully queer looking, but fun to have around too. Same with Dennis - oh, I enjoy that guy so much! He's a perfect clown and an inimicable mimic - in short, a "scream" I think he's wonderful. There are a few that are still remote tho', Dale and Ray may come around tho', but Charles remains bashful in spite of any and all of my efforts. But there is still Jake. For some reason, he's hopeless. But now anything could happen. This last chapter proves that.
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