| still at home volume 3 part 4 - 1960-61 december-march | work & days: a lifetime journal project |
December 16, 1960 12:30 p.m.? On the way home from town today Mr. Block said, "You should have an occupation that would allow you to develop your talent in writing - journalism." December 17 Worked harder than I tho't possible for me, scrubbing walls - for pay! Pop got the Christmas trees - a big one and a small one for our room - from Bakstead's pasture. December 21 11:pm Wed. All this Christmas-y stuff is quite vitalizing: You don't understand that, of course. But I will explain. I got a brown-paper parcel in the mail today, wrapped up as only an eighteen year old boy can wrap things - plenty of white paper and stickers underneath. It was too heavy to be the slippers I've expected, yet not actually very heavy, not heavy enough to be anything else. But it didn't rattle, even tho' something inside moved when I tilted it. I'll confess, I peeked. I stuck in a few fingers first - more white paper, - then dug further and touched velvety leather and fur. So it was slippers. I dug a little further and fished out the card .... A rather ordinary card, that he had written "Hope you have a nice Christmas and a happy Year - and for myself, I wish to see you real soon. Ton Ami Reiner" (That's a feeble attempt to forge his signature. What do you suppose - what trait, I mean - that underlining he always has represents? Intresant!) On the whole, it wasn't a very satisfactory card because it was a little cool. I'll tell you something very silly - because it will be good to remember when I think I'm unemotional After I read it, I thought to myself, I guess it has begun. He doesn't sign it "with love" anymore. Does that mean that he is really being only terribly honest, or that he is intrugued by the French, or that he wants me to worry a little, and miss him more. I was afraid he was being honest, that he was sending them as the last present he'd ever send me, just because he felt he should. You see how much difference a word, an imagined inflection, makes when I am always in doubt and afraid? I am wondering whether I am, by being so cautious and so fearful, being also a little unfaithful and untrusting. But I am not nearly sure enough of my own value to be sure of another's affections for me. I got Reiner a Pat Boone album - four songs. In Gottfrieds, I looked it all over, and was between "Tenderly" by Pat and "Pat's Great Hits." But I thought of my mother, and then I thought of his mother, and desicively bought the "Great Hits." I hope he likes it. Is wild about it. Adores it. Falls asleep with it playing a lull-aby, every night. I wrapped it in my 89 cents per roll red foil, and decorated it with pasted on words arranged to spell out my wishes for him - serious and definitely non-serious (I guess!) "... Wishing you a pretty princess ... treasure on a magic island ... were here ... a friendly boss ... a party every night ... a "Fröliches Winachten" and an extra specially happy "Neujhar." On the other side I assembled a winking head with cocquettish eyes and gold foil hair, and a pouting, kissy mouth. On the tag, I wrote "To a ladie's man" (just strictly for kicks) and inside I wrote "R.K. - With Love, Ellie" the only things I ever sign "with love" to are presents, as far as he's concerned. I mean it too. With lots of affection. Conclusion - "the important summing up of points in a composition, which gives the essay its impact" - goofy definition, but the impact of this Christmas is that it is the first Christmas that I have ever gone with a boy. Thats all the summing-up I want. Dec 22 We had a sort of party today .... The school afternoon party that was a good-bye to the 1960 school year. This, of course, concerns me: 1. Socially 2. Mentally It was rather successful in an unobtrusive way. I was wearing a plaidish dress - tight skirt, black and gold buttons; red tights; a girdle that, because it was upward-sliding kept my tights from sliding, because they were downward-slipping. My shoes were - well - I did have a few pangs because of all the beautiful long legs in their nylons and baby-heels, and my shoe had a hole in it; I looked longingly at those beautiful feet all day. Still, my day wasn't in the least spoiled. I've found out something; its no longer me, I mean, it never was me that was the important thing in my relationships to others; it was the way they reacted to me. It always is. Reactions were favorable today. When I looked in the mirror, I was surprized. I looked a lot better than usual. Don't know why; maybe color. And Al noticed me all day - In the morning I walked past him and he reached out and touched my hand. I shook him off and wouldn't look at him for a while, of course, but still, altho I do not like Al, I am pleased to be recognized by him as being a female creature. Then later, Burt was always hanging around me, Fred likewise, Henry too. I like that, even tho' they are only mildly likeable "fellows." My "sociology" (quote, "science of human relationships," unquote) as far as Al is concerned is only a very edgy thing but it is always different and unexplainable and unpredictable. We were singing a few carols. I was sitting on a desk. Al had walked all the way from the back of the room where the boys were "conventioned", and sat down on the top of the desk beside me. I wasn't surprized, only puzzled as always, because I am learning to predict his unpredictableness. (Neat, eh?) So we sang "Silent Night" and "O Come All Ye Faithful" and "Joy to the World," and all the while, I looked into the fields and non-existant places outside every window, and enjoyed not being too aware that Charming old Morrison had picked me, of all the girls, to perch beside and that he was singing, sometimes low, sometimes high, in his own happy-go-lucky way. Remember, once a long time ago, I was wondering about that charm. I couldn't put my finger on it. I can now. It's this happy-go-lucky, unpredictable, unrestrained, joyousness that crops up in his personality every once in a while. And his interest in a girl. Or, at least, his sham interest. Its very fascinating. I'd like to learn it. it would be useful, and oh so flattering, to be able to charm people, especially reluctant people. I got some cards, a manicure set, a candy bag, and Dennis liked the record I gave him really well. I was glad of that! We played a lot of records, jazz to "Hark the Herald Angels" I like the noise, the shuffling the rhythme, the sitting on registers being teased by Burt, the wearing bright red tights, the being-in-it-ness. There was a lot of repartee and banter. A lot of goofyness. A lot of fun. December 24 The traditional Christmas Sunday school program was a bit boring, I'm too old for a candy-bag! Went home to a most horrible fit of depression. Christmas Eve The last two Christmas Eves have been strange, magical ones - 1959 was in the U. of A. hosp, Station 46, Solarium. 1958 was in the enthralling desert town of Twenty-nine Palms. 1957 was ordinary, at home, I think. And 1960 is ordinary, at home, and so doggone lonesome I could cry, and I did. I just got lonelier and bluer by degrees, and then I had to get out and cry into my new slipper for a while. Very warm tears, and slow ones, first on my cheeks and then into my pillow. I could feel my mouth twisting as I grovelled in my loneliness, and I longed vainly. At first, the words my yearning shaped were, "oh Reiner, Reiner, .... I want him. I want him. I want him." But then, I knew that perhaps it was not a person, in individual form, but something else, intangible and un-named. And then I said, "I want it. I want it. I want it." Maybe what I wanted was only tenderness, and a warm touch, and a beingness of personality. Maybe I wanted to fit in somewhere in this special night, to be in a small orbit and not to be drifting. Maybe the pain that twisted around my heart was only youth, and maybe it was a "thing of a young girl." Maybe I'm tired from yesterday's 2 a.m. carolling. Maybe I'm getting the flue! I wrote two pages of a letter to him - Oh, I wish I could, just for once, not have any restraints when I write to him because I know how I feel about him and I think, if he is still as in-love with me as he has been, he would like to know what I go through mentally because of him, and I wonder if he feels and resents that same restraint as I do? if the restraint was not there, I could ask him. But the letter I wrote to him was a little bit tender, and I feel vastly better now. Do have a merry Christmas, Ellie, and have a wonderful Noël too, mon cher Reiner. Journal, do you mind if I write him just a note, not to be sent, but just for sayings sake? Christmas Eve, 1960 Tres Cher Reiner; (don't you like that? "Very dear") I opened your gift, and loved the seals you plastered onto it, and the eighteen-year-old-boy look your present had. I opened it before Christmas Reiner, because I couldn't wait. I could feel the slippers, and the fur, and each carress I give the fur, and when I stroke it and lay it against my cheek, each touch is a loving touch belonging to you. My feet are royal and pampered in them. I love them, and you honey. The chocolates, P.C. most cher, are ultra ultra special, because chocolates, Reiner, are symbolic. When a boy likes a girl and when she is a special thing, he gives her chocolates, and that's why I love your chocolates. Because you are honest; Because you have given them to me. Now I am so lonely I have cried, and tonight when I am near sleep I shall be near you. don't let this thing vanish too soon Reiner, altho it must, because I still need you very much.
- See how romantic! It would never do to send, but I could say it (?) December 27, '60 It was a pecquliar Christmas. I woke up, not early and not late, twice as blue as I was Christmas Eve. I stayed in bed, resenting something and craving something else, and was just as miserable as I could be, possibly. Just to be mulish, I wouldn't open my presents until way after everybody else had. And I was mad when I did. Pow! Well, I'd known before that I wasn't getting the flash attachment I'd been expecting. (too much money, drat it!) So I opened my present from Pauly - "Out of the Depths", the biography of missionary John Newton, of all things! And in the pkg. fr. Mom, there was a pr. Of stretchy black and metallic gold ballerina slippers, another Moody Press book - "By Searching", Isobel Kohn, plus a pr. of beige-champagne gloves, and on the bottom, an envelope containing $3.00 and marked "For the photography fund." From Gran'ma, there had been a red photography album exactly like the one I have, and wrapped around it was a stripe-y blue and green towel (whatever for?!!) And that's It. Jack Chupas were over all the time from just before the Eve program till about 5 p.m. on the 26th. Screaming but sweet babies, heady diaper whiffs, baby-food tins all over. Yikes. But I was going to talk about my "mirks" (That's a new word. It's Scottish dialect for "dusk", and here, it means a gloomy blues. Oke?) I had to go to church. My hair was straightish, my nose was puffy. We were late. I was determined not to march up to my choir "stall", and face the crowd with that face forward. So I looked away always, since I tho't Block might ask me up. He stared at me for a horribly long minute; I knew he was even if I wouldn't look at him. And then he said "Ellie, would you come up and help us?" So I had to. There's no denying that it was a funny-pecquliar incident. Even in choir, I could feel the old mirks crawling on, and did my utmost to keep my mind on something gay. So with my mental struggles to keep my eyes dry, I didn't get much out of the sermon. But I did decide that this was enough acting up from me. And I resolved: Now you're going to do something, girl. Make an effort. Stop enjoying all this silly emotion. Grow up. So I started forcing a few smiles, and after that, didn't even need the hankie I'd borrowed from Mrs. Siebert. It got a little better after that, and tho' I've had to battle those mirky spells once or twice, I'm getting better! "Iss es net pecquliar?" December 30 Ordeal by horseback: I rode to La Glace for the mail on the Bay and was frozen cold and stiff and anxious and "tired but happy" because of a very sweet letter. December 30, 1960 Quote - "P.S. This is in the middle of the party Ellie, and I know I had one too many, but as ever, I'm in my right mind - no matter, I just wanted to tell you that I wish you were here now - I need you! O.K? I feel lots better, now that I could at least talk to someone as nice as you. V'standen? I knew you would. If you felt right now just the way I do, you'd know how much I love you, but seeing that you're not here, I'd better get back downstairs, anyway - I had to talk to you! Thanks Reiner (X)" It was a sweet letter. I wonder what he felt like, and why, so suddenly, he was lonesome enough to sneak away, play my record, and write me a letter Was it the same odd thing as made me so blue on Christmas Eve? I'd like to ask him. Was it the stimulation of a few gins (Oh Reiner, how could you? That's a wail I'm not sure I mean. Just as long as that gin stays a festive thing only -) But alcohol isn't a stimulant, it's a deadener. Was it the exitement of the party? - That should have made him forget me. Were Diane and Peter romantic enough to make him yearn for some feminine thing, personified in his idealistic ideas about me? I would like to know, what makes an eighteen year old boy rush up to his room in the middle of a party, play the record he got from his girl, whom he hasn't kissed for months and months, and write her a passionate note declaring that he wants her he needs her he loves her? December 31 Saturday of fooling around. A Great deal of typing. Last night Pop brought home a black and white part-everything 4 mo. old puppy called Mike. [Rudy with Mike] January 2 1961 Last year, Doug. This year, Daddy made me help Paully "Ausmist"! [clean manure out of the barn] Awful stuff. I'm reading Swiss Family Robinson. January 7, ah b'lieve On a pillowcase with strawberries and daizies on it. P.S. Heres a story idea I want you to develop sometime: In R's letter today, he said, "Ellie, do you think boys ever cry? I mean, big boys? About an hour ago I came into my room - it was all dark - I turned on the light, and there was Peter, lying on the chesterfield and crying - it's only a few more hours and he'll have to go again - I quickly went downstairs, and after some debating, I told Diane about it (she was waiting for him) - I don't know if that was the proper thing to do - but anyway, she hurried up to him." I think its profoundly touching, and I think too, that it was sweet of Reiner to share it with me - and, in a way, tell me something about himself - For he is like Peter, and he worships Peter too. I think the fact that Reiner would tell me this - tell me about a strong man who was so shaken about leaving a mere girl that he would cry in the darkness, from the tho't of it. - it's sweet - I know I've said that before - and dear of him to tell me about something so close to himself - the fact that he would tell me, someone outside the intimate circle of boys, and masculinity, to whom this thing might seem a weakness - about Peter, and about such an intense masculine emotion, is a supreme complememt. The story I'd like to build from this is one about a boy; eighteen, smooth, who has a wild crush on a beauty queen but knows an only mildly pretty girl loves him; and told with the boy in first person. He finds his older brother crying about leaving his girl to go sailing. He is upset, he wants to tell someone - glamour girl won't do - he goes to the Mildly Pretty girl, and falls in love with her. Sweet, sentimental and abstract. I want, very much, for you to write this, Ellie, and send it to the Seventeen contest. Maybe you'll win! January 12 Got "Horses" for Paully, "Leave it to Beany" for Judy. "4 tragedies from Shakespeare" for Mom and "Sherlock Holmes - Adventures of" for Pop - he did not even look at it. Sometimes I dislike him much. January 18 Naturally, Journal, this is going to be about a man. Not Reiner this time tho'. About Daddy. Sometimes he irritates me profoundly, but there are always times when we think so much alike that we irritate Mom, about subjects she's dead against. Like Daddy, for instance. Today he was working with the beams in the rebuilding project at the church - and he couldn't help "showing off" (the quote is Mom's) And dig this. He hung from those 12' from-the-floor beams by his toes!! Honest-to-goodness. I know; it surprized me too! so we agreed about that. Daddy and I both thought it was glorious in small-scale. Mom thought it was risky and a bit childish. We both teazed her, of course, about being so grandmotherly. And she was. It was kinda' funny, natch, as all personalities are when they brush against each other. Another thing I want to tell you about; it's a worry, and, I think, a fear. I found something in the Bible that has frightened and confused me - it was something about if you once were saved, and then sinned, your salvation becomes invalid, and couldn't be picked up again. I don't know how to interpret it, how to believe it, how to put it togeather with all the other things I've interpreted and believed and hoped, and always heard. I've been so worried I've cried a few very earnest tears and prayed a few very earnest prayers. But I have to find an answer. If that's true, exactly as it is, with no ammendments - can anyone, especially me, and Reiner, and all the people I love, escape hell?? January 19 I've got big plans for the summer - namely, berry picking in the Frazer Valley. January 26 Beautiful hoar-frost in the morning. Nothing ever happens. I lost two and a half lb. over wk. and and am down to 116 lb, but still 34-24-37!! January 28 Now I'm really in trouble. I've been in some pretty hair-raising situations before, but this is immeasurably worse. And it's actually my fault too. Unintentional, but rash - that's what the thing that brought all this on is. It was my impulsive-ness and my feather-brainedness that did it all, I'll admit that, but I can't understand it, I wail, I weep, I beat my head against the wall And what will happen now? The back-ground to this thing is so ordinary. Mr Block is really struggling along in our Grammer - one day he got a very simmple thingamajig he couldn't explain. We were peeved, and thought, just to subtily give over the idea that we weren't satisfyed, that we'd like to ask Mr. Dyck about it since he's so good at that kind of stuff. So I suggested writing him a letter - get this straight - (Its not nice but I have to be frank) the grade 10's and 11's did not delegate me to do it, I just voted myself in, and didn't consult anybody after that. I'm responsible for the whole thing, but I was representing a united opinion and that's why I signed off from all of us, unofficially. So I composed the letter. It was goofy, but it was meant to be just as goofy as we could make it. - corny wording, (spoofing the Victorian) elaborately rediculous phraseology, and everything else. Some of the things I put in, strictly to provide a laugh, were: We'd like to get back a letter we could hand over with a flourish, etc. That we "remain, His 'umble and obedient servants." Sure it was lame-brained, but it was meant to be. It wasn't very complementary to Mr. Block but it wasn't meant to be - we were disgusted with him. And then I mailed it. That was about three weeks ago. I thought he'd think it was funny, and be just a little bit tickled. Mom thought so too. Today was grisley from the beginning. I was incredibily ugly when I got up, and my hair was straight as a witches broom straw. By noon, I hadn't improved much, but had the presumptuousness to say "so what?" and go along with Daddy for an afternoon at La Glace. He was going to be at an afternoon Credit Union Meeting, and I thought I'd like to try out our beautiful new skates at the rink. As it happened, there were two hockey games in progress and we didn't get closer to the ice than the outside wall. anyway, I was wearing jeans, a big wooly but teribly dirty jacket of Daddy's, and a head-warmer to cover my unsatisfactory flat hair-"undo". There was a blue and white car parked in front of Maple's, and Daddy said "there's Mr. Dyck". I thought he meant Fred's father, but then saw differently and shrieked, "Peter!" (I never can call him "Mr. Dyck, sir" behind his back) I was happy about seeing him, and anxious to talk to him, but sorry about my messy state of being. When we sat down in the hall - I noticed two people sitting up in front: Mr Dyck was fairly shining with well-groomed-ness, and looked all stiff and polished and strange. (He was wearing a most attractive new suit.) Mr. Mann was slumped way down, smoking a new pipe. He looked so familiar and dear that I was quite content to sit and look at the both of them and think about a lot of things. I remembered the essay I wrote for Mr. Dyck once, saying about how I didn't think I loved anyone; I wouldn't say that now because I've found that I do love quite a few people and things. My whole idea of love is changed - I thought it had to be something so exalted, but it isn't. Its the warm and familiar feeling that is quite common, actually. - that is the reason that I know, now, that I do love people I can't think of a lot of them - Reiner I love in an affectionate searching happy way, with a touch of the physical in it. I love Mr. Mann in a most overwhelming way - a way that is only philios and agape, not in the least Eros. I just adore him, that's all. I love Mr. Dyck in the same way - admiration and understandingness. And I love the old Man who smiles at me so wistfully, and I love the mysterious John in the Co-op, and I love Joan McKeeman, and the postmistress, and Paul and Judy and Rudy - Paul most of all. And I love Tommy Mann, and so many people! After a while, the meeting was over, and then I passed sandwiches and ate them. Mr. Mann said he wanted to talk to me before he left. Mr. Dyck rambled over and gabbed after a while. He talked mostly about himself, he always does, but why shouldn't he? I like talking about him too. I don't think he really thinks I'm capable of keeping up a two-ended conversation, but I'm a good ear. Or I was. Right now I'm rather peeved about him. I asked if he'd gotten the letter. He looked at me hard. I don't know what he said but I knew something was wrong. I can't remember most of what he said. I was stunned. I asked why. He said it was "snobbish," "presumptuous", "sarcastic," and altogeather detestible. He didn't know that I was the only one responsible for it. And every word he said was a personal rotten vegetable thrown at my stupified huddling heart. (Isn't that rather well put? - nuts!) I can't understand it. I can't! We were sure he'd only think it was a big joke. It was, after all, an attempt at impishness. But he thought it was leering, a personal insult. This seems so out of character. What have I done, and what can I do? I can't understand it. He sneered at the "humor," he called it a contemptible "attempt at levity". Oh, I don't understand it. So that's the mess I'm in. It's frightening. And I'm responsible for every bit of it, theres no one else in on it Und was soll ich yetst? Wie wert ess jetst mit mir gehen? Werd ich neimals lernen? I was thankful when the lights were turned off and I could hide my hideous red-eyed face. I fought tears through the whole film. And then the meeting was over. Mr. Mann came over and asked to back me into a corner .... I thought I knew then, what was going to happen. He looked me in the eyes and said "Do you know anything about that letter?" I said yes. He said, "Were you responsible for it?" I said yes. "No. Were you really?" I said yes. My nose was running and I had to dig frantically in the pocket of that dirty jacket for a hankie, and pulled it out crumpled and unsavory to hide my ugliness in. "It wasn't meant to be that way!" I blurted, and a tear rolled down my face. He said, "I wouldn't have said anything if I had known you would take it this way." He said, "why don't you just step in back there?" I stumbled over a bench into the room behind. There were magazines spread over the floor and the room was as red-rimmed as I because of the light sliding in through the hideous dusty-red curtains at the window. I was sobbing noiselessly, and the tears kept coming. I am too emotional, and I was terribly ugly. He came over and pulled me closer to him, with his hands around my shoulders, and he said "Maybe you don't see it that way because you are younger than we are." I think that is why. And he said, "please don't cry. And don't let this make you think less of us." I don't think less of Mr. Mann but I am disappointed in Mr. Dyck. Oh he's so self righteous righteous indignation. I thought he had a better sense of humour than that. But he doesn't, the prig. Remember Jackie Martin and the Masculine Attributes? - Never mind, I'm just mad, and maybe he did have a right to be indignant and priggish. But what was so awful about it? I wish I could understand. Maybe when I am older, and more prigish myself, and not so naïve, so gauche. And Mr. Mann said "because you are a wonderful person." I stared at the floor ridgidly. "You don't believe me do you?" he said; I'd call it tenderly. "No." "I think so!" "Maybe you don't know " He reminded me of Paul then, and I loved him of course, but I was sorry he was saying this to me because I want to be able to know he believes everything he says with that silver tongue. He said, "I think I know you pretty well," and he said "When you read 'Julius Ceasar' next year you'll come to the part that says 'if you could see yourself as others see you'" Before, he had said, "Is it really so bad?" And I said - not "said," but told him feveredly, "I don't know. It just isn't the same!" and I could just as well have told him, "It's all dust and ashes now, just dust and ashes. Everything has crumbled, and the wind will blow it away." Oh, it just isn't the same! Dust and ashes. And then afterwards, I mumbled "thank you" and rushed out. He knows as well as I that I will worry even tho' he told me not to. First I have to back Mr. Block off into a corner and tell him about it, explain. And then I may have to appologize to Mr. Dyck. And then I will have to wait and learn. This is a gastly hole to be in. It's terrible to think of. But I do think I am rather pleased by it and just kind of whimsically amused by it. Because years from now I will laugh and write a wonderful story about it, because now I know something I didn't know before. P.S. Blocks were down. I told him about it. We stood in the kitchen, he leaned against the cupboard. I leaned against the table. He stared down beside my right shoulder, I stared down at a point beside his right shoulder. In the other corner of the kitchen, Daddy and Mr. Reedigar were in earnest conversation about the usual earnest subject, and in the living room, Mom and sweet unintelligent Mrs. Block were "speaking seriously". He already had the letter. This thing has mush-roomed so tremendously; I'm even more astounded. He got the letter. Was upset about it. Was actually ready to tear up the English papers of the kids responsible, and give them all "D"s. So I 'fessed and now I know how angry he had been, and he knows that it was strictly my idea. So he won't make it any more public, but if I hadn't told him it would be all over like the radio-active fallout of the bomb this is so much like. I think it's stopped now, but I will have to explain to Mr. Dyck too. I hope he isn't as righteously indignant about that one if I do. And Mr. Block said "I could tell, by the way it was written, who had done it. And I was wondering if I had been so .... so dumb, because I had had such a different opinion of you. Your attitude in school has been .... good, I've been quite satisfied." And he said, later, "I think you have a tremendous ....... potential. I really do." I stared hard. What can you do then? Once, he said, "Mr. Dyck's remarks were pretty strong, and the things Mr. Mann said indicated that he agreed." And then, I thought, "Mr Mann - that loveable, sweet, lying hypocrite? He'd acted as though he were on my side!" I'd modify that now. I'd believe in Mr. Mann, no matter what and nobody could dissuade me. All of this is tremendously interesting. I think its terrific, but boy, it's wearing. It will be great for memoirs. All the poor, befuddled, people on this earth .... and all the clashing of solitudes! It's a fascinating thing! And I have all my life to learn about it and write about it! That's what youth is the expectation for the future. Was dies noch alles mit sich hat! - That's one thing I've learned. Its been a parable! (In a sobering kind of way, as Mr. Block said) Feb 5 This is a post mortem, actually - maybe I mean a post scriptum because nobody managed to die. But the funny thing is, "things" are different now. It's been good. Mr. Block has become one of the people I love - I don't know exactly why, but the combination of Mr. Redigar's sermon and this "incident" have given me the strange feeling of "all things have become new". It's not dust and ashes any more - loving Mr. Block has made a difference. It's not the same! I'm quite jubilant. It's made so much difference, Nothing feels the same. The routine isn't dreary. Now I want to love everyone - I want to be the warmest, lovingest, person everyone I know knows. I don't want it to be just my love either, I want it to be Christ in me. Isn't this odd - and wonderful too? Maybe everything will be different now .... I hope so, I want it to be. I got a letter from Mr. Mann yesterday, that he wrote the Tuesday after last Saturday. (On Monday morning, he called Mr. Block to tell him that as far as he was concerned, it was all "water under the bridge." When Mr. Block stopped in on Monday evening, he asked to see me, and when I stepped over to our door, he was standing there, and he pulled his collar up around his neck, and smiled at me, and told me about Mr. Mann's call. He smiled so "deeply" and so warmly then, that I felt shaken, as tho' I would drown in the abundance of it. I resented him before because he wasn't Mr. Mann, and maybe even more, because I thought he wasn't interested in me, because he seemed so far from being the kind of friend Mr. Mann and Mr Dyck were. But I was wrong. He is a friend now! Whenever we see each other, theres a more warmness about everything, and a small knowingness. We like each other, and know it. I could be glad for this upheaval, because it has been so good for and to me, but I am only sorry it hurt him, and I have told him so, but I want him to forget about it, and know it isn't what it seemed to be and was. In this letter of Mr. Mann's, he told me the why's and wherefore of why they thought and did what they thought and did. It did help. I understand more now. and the whole thing was two and a half pages long - impersonal until the end. It didn't sound just like Mr. Mann, and it was faintly "sermonizing" (the quote is his) And at the end he declared again how wonderful I was (I'm saying this very skeptically) and about my "potential" - I wish some of that potential would be more kinetic, and what makes people think I have any potential, anyway? I'd like to know about that. And where does this "potential" appear. Where is it? He said, "I still think" (that "still" hurts) "that you hold a wonderful future in the palm of your hand, and if properly nurtured, that future can bring untold happiness to many as well as to yourself." - I want that, but how can I bring it about? But I do want it, more than anything, and I want to begin now. I dreamed about Mr Mann too - can't keep away from it. He was driving through a city, at night, and I was in the car with him, sitting way over on his side, and his arm was around me. The windows were frosted, and the neon on the outside was blurred into lights only, smudges. It was very nice, and I don't know if I like anyone as much as Mr. Mann. February 13 Going to have a pie social tomorrow for noon. I'm having cherry pie and best saucrs and silverware forks! And pop. February 14 Bert got my pie. Feb 20
40 days at Banff, studying creative writing! for anyone lucky or talented enough to win. I intend to be one of those people, somehow - if not this year, then next year or the year after. Its something I have to try. Maybe I can win. Maybe I won't. But I have to try because Banff and those classes could transfer me directly to paradise. I dreamed high about the Governor General's. I won out. This is worlds higher a dream, but I want to stretch my good fortune. Maybe I can reach. It's going to be my story, the one I want to write. And when I write it I shall be 16. Maureen Daly was 16 when she wrote "Sixteen" and twenty when she wrote "Seventeenth Summer." Isn't this goofy? And amen't I gullible? February 23 Thurs. Jan, Karen, Charles and Jake left on a bus for Varsity Guest Weekend. Jan took a letter for Reiner from me to deliver in person. February 24 Snow by avalanches for the past few days - drifts and finally the snow-plough rescued us from dogged bus plowing and being late. Feb. 25 Daydreaming about Banff School of Fine Arts - I'm going to tackle the story on tomorrow's free Sunday - recreation, not work, of course. I see myself wandering into a room at my chalet, languidly etc, etc, and wandering about Banff paths. O well, it's a lovely daydream and rather harmless because my summer is going to be a marvellous one, even if I don't get the scholarship! It's rather good to feel pleasantly presumtious about it tho'. To be candid, chances are my chances are pretty slender - almost angular to be exact. But - 1. I do have a certain amount - "certain" is a broad term - of native writer's feeling, to say nothing of a moderately juicy vocabulary. 2. My story has, or will have, I hope, if it stays true to plan, originality, simplicity, naturallness, and a smidgion of impact. Anyway, it's a story I want to write very much. And Maureen Daly's "Sixteen" has relatively little to do with that wanting. 3. I certainly want, and intend, to win. Wouldn't it be sigh-stuff? Too fabulous actually, but possibly It's not as tho' I were competing against magazine authors and the rest of the typewriter-clique. After all, a grade ten student can only be so good, and I am competing against fairly average grade ten students - remember that. But try hard. Hardest. It's a big goal, and beautiful. And almost possible if not precisely a thing in the bag. P.S. Thanks to hydrogen peroxide, my moustach is becoming noticeably less noticeable. Wunderbar. I moon around, psycho-analysing mirrors, to see if it actually is any lighter and the response says - little lighter, keep bleaching. But the method, path, whatever (see "way" Oxford dictionary) isn't peroxide a hussie word? It has evil associations among the underworld Gangs of false diamond earring and rye on the rocks and fredericks of holliwood padded girdles, also boudoir-black chiffon nighties. How interesting. February 26 Spent 7 hours on writing my story. It's good at the end, bad in the beginning and dull in the middle but maybe I can fix it later. Maybe not. Feb 27 I've been churned up all day, in a bleak way. In the bus, Al asked me what was wrong, because I was staring into the distance so hard and so depresed-ly (I just smiled mysteriously, sadly ) (ha) Maybe that's what comes of reading "To Tell Your Love" first thing in the morning. I don't know what it was, actually, and certainly not why. But it was there. Very much so. Janeen came back from Varsity Guest Weekend and I saw her this morning, first thing when I came into the school. She was with Helene. We just looked at each other, said "hi" and marched off to hang up my coat. Nobody said anything. Finally, Helene said, "She saw him. There, I've broken the spell." And then Janeen "exclaimed", "You didn't tell me what a perfectly darling accent he has!" And then the spell really was broken, and I backed her into the back vestibule and sat her down and asked questions. After a while everything seemed so quiet. There wasn't a ghost in the hall. We hadn't heard the buzzer. Then I was left again, feeling afraid and abstract and more bleak (this morning I sang "O What a Beautiful Morning" very loudly - that's ironical. Laugh.) I was jealous - she 'phoned him Friday morning, he came over while they were having breakfast, and sat down beside them to have coffee. Then they left, and he went to school. And Friday night he sat beside her at the Varsity Varieties. Saturday night he took her to their school play, and then after that showed her Walking Street and the penthouse (a guy in a wheel chair was necking very hard with a girl on his knee so they didn't stay long) and the Blue Willow for cherry pie and ice cream. [Reiner's photo of Jan] That's why I'm jealous. And I'm afraid, because she is very beautiful, and very charming, and I am not much, now. I wrote a long dirge of my thinks, which I shall add here presently. They were pretty morose. Bernice came to me one day last week - "Do you think they'll neck?" and I said "Uh-uh. He wouldn't, and she wouldn't, because it wouldn't be ethical." But now I'm not sure. What if they did. It would be quite natcheral, but it would knock over a few pedistals. I have to know. And I will. Still, if they necked, he would only have kissed her good-bye, and could he have done that, and then said "Give all my love to Ellie"? A few small pedistals have already been knocked over - Jan told me that he smokes "Belvederes" in a pale blue package. I thought he didn't smoke at all. Crash. Oh Reiner, you're not what I thought you were. I just wonder how much difference there is between my ideal him and the real him? And she said - "Guess what I saw in his dark-room - a couple of cases of beer." I was just going to say, "but he doesn't drink it," but I didn't. Maybe he does. Oh, I'm in an awful mood. Feb 28 Reiner's letter came - six pages long, and chatty. I'd been waiting for it. The first time I read it I started feeling bleak again. I read it again. Then I felt nothing. And now, after reading it again, carefully, I am both angry and hurt. This love business isn't at all what its supposed to be - its not all fluttery and flowery. Most of it is fear and anger and resentment. Ever since I started to feel this way about Reiner I've been afraid. I think I could count the times when I've been really sure and happy about it all on my fingers.
Not Christmas, surely not Christmas. 7 - the letter he wrote from the party. That's one hand, a thumb, and a little finger. I don't think I'll ever fill up both hands. It won't be that long. It can't be. And those exhilerating days are so seldom. Fear is so much a part of "this." I don't know if it is with everyone. But I'm timid and trembling and I know that beside Janeen, I'm nothing, and that if he ever saw us together, he would know that, and I would be at the real end of my first love. Maybe it's ended now. I wish I knew. And anger. I'm angry now. Angry at Reiner and myself. I want to hurt him. I want to pretend that I don't love him a bit, and I want him to be afraid for a while, because I have been afraid so long. I think he was, once. When he was most in love with me, and when I was rather bored with him. I wish I could feel that way now. I don't give-a-doggone-about-the-guy, but he's flattering to have around. Then he was a nice little bubble. Now he's a necessity. I've become tied down by my need of him. I'd like to be free of it - I don't want to stop loving him. But I want to be myself again, belonging to me only. I don't want to have to depend on a careless word from him for peace - I want to be able to take him every once in a while, and leave him, in between. Maybe I won't mail this letter until Saturday. I might not; maybe he can be afraid for a while. I hope he will be. He took Janeen to the Blue Willow for (-choke) cherry pie with ice cream. A long time ago he told me that he didn't want to go there again without me. Yesterday Janeen said she'd been there. It was just another drop in my cup of bleakness. He said, now, "Now comes the part where I want to explain something to you Ellie. It was after we came from the hospital we went to the "Blue Willow" and I hope you understand this - I haven't been there since you left, and I didn't want to go there with nobody but you, but don't you think with Jan it was different. Hope you don't mind Darlin'" I'm angry that he explained at all. When I read it, I said "Do you think I care that much?" and then I said, even more angrily, "Well, I do" I don't want him to know I care at all, altho' I do sometimes. But I would have been angry if he hadn't. It just hit me - if he thought there'd be anything to explain, why did he? But I would have been angry even if he had taken her to a different one too, because I would have found an allegory in it. I read between the lines too much. Even when he says anything that could be called sweet I get vicous and write in a few extra line. Like: "in less than three months I could see you again and you can see Janeen again." and "You were certainly right about her being beautiful - but Darlin' so are you - even all the more so. Do you think I'd believe that? Don't be so careful, Reiner. I know how it is, and it was my risk. I wish I could hate you." He'll never see this, and neither will Janeen. I won't always feel like this. I couldn't. But maybe I can write about it sometime. I'm jealous now, and catty, and all because I love him and I love myself. But what is this doing to me? but I'm going to say "dear Reiner," instead of "Cher", and it's going to be an x, no lipstick, no explanation, and a very small one too, and I might mail it two days late. I think I will. I'm not going to pass on any of her complements, not a stingy little one. I hope he thinks the reports were unfavorable and is very afraid. He won't be tho'. He's too stupid and too independent of me. That's the worst of it. I won't be warm. I'll be gay. I'll be flighty. But not tender. Not again, for a while. Not until I can be a little sure again. That won't be for a while. Maybe it won't be ever. But it has to! What would I do, if it didn't? March 2 It snowed and there is lottsa mud, like fudge under icing under the snow. March 3 Sexsmith Music Nite so our choir sat on the platform and I could stare to my hearts content. March 4 On Monday I will be Sweetest of Sixteens - if I was what I wanted to be, or will be what I want to be. But even if my Sixteen is slightly acid, it will be the only one I'll ever have. That's the worst of being sixteen - you have such driving reponsibilitie to have a heart-beating, wing-flapping, stony-eying, pink-smiling, whop-whooping good time of it, because its traditional and Only Once. I don't think I can live up to that. I'm not pretty enough, usually. But I have zest, and vim, and enthusiasm, Mom thinks too much. And I love to live and do things and look forward to things. Its part of me. So maybe I will have a pretty good year. But as good as it's supposed to be? Nix! C'est Impossible. If I was in Edmonton - then perhaps! But now .... Well, without any touch-and-go love life, Sixteen's magic vaporizes to a degree. Now, and suddenly, I am what you could term loosely as being in love. I don't kid around saying "love is too big a word." I just wisper, between my teeth into a pillow or my palm or a corner of a car, "oh I love you I love you I love you." Therefore - something must be happening in my heart cells. Why I think I love the guy? That was number one. #2. If I wasn't why would I be so completely bleak and listless and verge-of-teary as I was a few days ago, just because I was sore afraid Janeen had totally enchanted him, and so jealous I could have chewed other things besides my finger-nails. #3. When I was explaining to Janeen late on Thursday night why I had been angry at myself, I said ".... because I'm so .... so dependent on thing he says and does for the way I feel. because I'm so madly in love with him, to be blunt about it." If that isn't adolescent love, well? What is it? #4. I become so intensely lonely, not for a shape or a hand or a shoulder, but for Reiner Koblotsky, eighteen, young, honest, tender, sweet, enthused, loving, romantic, eager, genuine, sincere See? That tirade just now was #5. reason. And thats enough reasons. On Thursday I got a very interesting little birthday package from Edmonton. Janeen knew what it was, but didn't tell .... I slept on it at Postmans, rattled it all Friday. Then we went to Music Night with Blocks. It was horrible in its own way - Not the program part - that was great (I met Bobbie Mailor again!) but going home with the Blocks. I sat in back with Daddy. It was silent. Daddy started on his usual hardships-and-injustice story, and Mrs. Block was more completely stupid and Mr. Block and I never said a word, hardly ever. I turned my face into the wall and cryed into the interior, dusty as it was, and clutched my picture of my Friend. And when I got home I resolved to open my present, just to raise the bleakness I could feel settling. So I did, in the complete dark, under my covers (it was wrapped beautifully - certainly not nicely, but so appealingly because there was the sweetest little corner sticking out, and it was all askew and stuck with scotch tape. Janeen and I had a very good laugh about it but I loved it because it was him, and so eighteen-year-old-boy in such a dear way.) So I opened it, slipping off his charming wrapping, opening a Kodak printing-paper box, felt tissue, then a cloth-covered little box, and then - a very dainty gold chain with a heart on the end - a locket I looked at it with a match and wore it all night and since then. When can I see him? I want to say thank you properly - with the closest warmest of hugs and most loving kisses. This chapter has been very romantic - as I told Judy when she was teasing me, I am really getting quite good at making these be-flowered little phrases. The shocking thing about them is, I'm beginning to mean them! Today I raked in another birthday bonus from Granma - a scarf, which is unimportant, and a big square bottle of light, misty "Blue Flame" parfum. That is significant. Perfume means that she's acknowledging my growing up. So I have two presents - Shall get another from Mom and Dad on Monday morning, and probably a dollar from G & G Epps (dear Grandpa Epp!) and something to wear from Auntie Lou on Tuesday's mail. The two I already have are symbolic - The locket, with his picture and a smiling, positively radiant one of me - love, and the youngness and niceness of it. The tenderness and realness. The perfume - chic and growing up ness - and the status symbol of it Who knows what else? Thursday night, staying at Janeen's to hear a lot about Varsity Guest, was tremendous. She detailed. And she really made me happy by one thing - I asked her whose idea it had been to go to the Blue Willow - she said hers! So he had wondered a while, but I know he wouldn't say no because he's a gentleman. So - Oh I feel much better about that. We listened to records, gabbed, progressing from the very mundane in the early evening to the very intimate in the early morning. At 3 o'clock we got up for some cookies and an apple. The things I enjoyed were watching her dance with Marlys - they're very good, using her make-up (train-loads of it) watching her incredible figure and her incredible face and being A Person. March 5 Goodbye fifteen. You've been a real person but this is your last day. Your hours are numbered, friend. You have just made the rounds of your room as fifteen and kissed all the men on the walls good-bye. There were five Reiners and Bob Goulet and Tony Perkins and scads of dim Mexican men under sombreros. You've been a person - I'm not sure just how - You've had successes. The governor generals was one of them. Good Girl. You've learned things - you've had some good times and some miserable ones. You've grown up more. You aren't so easily angry, you don't bicker so easily. You began to take care of those clothes and that room. You wrote letters, first once every two weeks. Now every week. a boy who hasn't kissed you for seven months and fifteen days and almost four hours is in love with you. And you are leaving this wonder to sixteen. She will need it. Leave her much love and many friends and work to give her knowingness after she is Become. You were many things - ugly and pretty, morose and singing, bleak and exultant, loved and unloved, a friend and a spiteful old cat, pessimist and optimist, Introvert and Extrovert. But always dredging into things and people and yourself. You've given to your future, to sixteen, and you have taken from her - some firsts, some possible faults, some friends. You've given her a small measure of confidence, some records and many dreams, and knowledge. Nothing so very big and wonderful has happened to you - many small happinesses and many small oddnesses. But no Large thing. Except people and loving them. And you, Sixteen - You've all the world ahead of you! Go - and be a friend and a lover and a helper and a writer and a dreamer and a happy person. Watch and write, be conscious and aware. Sixteen - you have only three hundred and sixty five days. When you go, be able to say "Veni Vedi Vinci" and "I loved." *One thing to remember - Sixteen. "For I know whom I have believed and am persuaded that he is able to keep that which I've committed unto him against that day." March 7 Got a needle - booster shot - and an eye-test which I bluffed my way though. March 10 I have to be in a dumb debate against Sexsmith High - we had a class caucus, so it was Ellie, then Jake, and then Raymond G. Thrilled. March 12 Frustrated and frantic from typing yearbook stuff. March 17 Rushed from 12:15 to 3:30 on Yearbook and barely made it for the deadline but did. Got home in a mood. March 18 Saturday night Nothing particular to talk about, but that, too, is something to record because it is a part of my new sixteen-ness. I've been sixteen for 13 days. I don't feel any different, or look any better, except for the improvement due to my newly bought eye-lash curler. (birthday present to me) happy but broke birthday. It cost me one dollar and twenty-five cents. My birthday was terribly un-important. I had to work on the year-book and had Karen over. I heard a lot about Dennis, his superlative personality, their tears-and-last-kiss moments, her emotions, and how emotional she is. Quote, "oh yes, I'm very emotional." Mieow, said she. I had candles this year, but Mom hadn't made a cake. Actually she had - 3 for her ladies' aid meeting but none for me, so I got a little by-product cake. I said it was perfectly all right and would never have admitted that it hurt, that I really did care very much. And there wasn't any icing on it. Mom "hadn't had time" to fix my poor little piece up, and was going to slap together a butter icing but I loath them so they squeezed some strange wriggly lines out of a decorator tube onto it. And that was my cake.. I'm embarassed because I still feel bitter about it. I should be old enough now not to care. I'm sixteen. But that's no comfort. When you become sixteen there should be a big cake with fluffy pink frosting and strawberries and ice cream, and a whirly skirted new dress that rustles and dips at the neck, and a party with swarms of beaux. I'll admit that this had something to do with my fugitive tears before I blew out the candle. It seems so silly. I thought so then too. But it was so poignant, and so serrated that I could be turning six because the tears were there and no wishing could reassure me when I blew the fires all out with one puff. That's how it happened. It certainly wasn't wonderful. I wrote the story for Banff. It isn't finished yet but we had to hand it in to Mr. Block. I felt awkward, thinking about his reading it, but I don't really mind him. I just hope he doesn't read it to his not-so-sweet, unintelligent wife because she is one of the doltish dregs and I don't want her beach-combing around in my soul. Mrs. Fast was substituting two days last week. One terrifying Language period she appeared with a sheaf of stories in her fat hand and proceeded to announce that she was going to read them aloud and we would evaluate them. My heart started thumping violently and I was sore-afraid, but determined. So I walked up to her desk numbly and said, "Could you please skip my story?" She paused, said "why?" I leaned closer to her desk, staring at the top of it. "Well because it's rather personal." Finally, she said "I don't think we'll have time for it anyway," and I sat down gratefully. Yesterday Mr. Block stopped me in the hall while I was coming to class, late, as always, and looked at me so I-wish-to-speak-with-you-privately that I wondered what rules I was going to be reminded of. But he lowered his voice as per detective movie and said, "Ellie, did you want your story read in class?" I said my heartfelt "no" and was vehemently thankful to him ever after. This business of writing soul-searching ultra-personal short stories requires a patented reading permit order and a few body-guards and government orders. Janeen's story was read aloud tho'. It was called "The Beat" and was about a beatnik who loved music more than being beat. It was very good. Her words were all tinseled and her phrasing touched by a wand. I am jealous and despairing. I came home from school yesterday, exhausted from working yearbook for hours. We finished it for the dead-line tho'. It was an albatross. I was talking to Mom about school and told her about the story, and then about Janeen's. "It was terribly good," I said, and screeched the way I always do when I'm frustrated. "You should rejoice" Mom said. "But why does she always have to do everything better than me?" Then I cried, lying on my back on the couch, and didn't care who could camp on my poor bare soul and explore. The tears were very warm and they flooded my eyes first, and then rolled silently out of the corners and down to my ears. I was staring up, out of the windows to the eaves and watching the water drip mechanically as it swelled into drops too big to hang suspended, freighted with gold sun against the blue sky. After a while I went into the kitchen and painted an abstract for my wall. It is deep greys and greens and blues and purples, with an orange half circle and a yellow dot in the middle. I don't know what it is or what it means, but it's self expression. I rather like it.
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