Along with the 60s knitting booklet, I also saved two small diaries from my mom’s stuff. They were her father’s, my maternal grandfather whom I never met because he died two years before I was born. I remember my mom telling me she missed him most when milestones like that happened.
The earlier book is dated 1920 on the front and the pages inside, and I can only assume he wrote in it that year. He turned 18 that September, and the entries I skimmed as I flipped through refer to being in school (and lots and lots of time at church; they were Catholic). He seems to have written before bed each day, recounting what he did.
The later book has space for five years’ worth of very short entries for each day. He used this book starting in 1931, the year after my mom was born. The entries mentioning her birthday are marked with red dots for some reason.
I want to read both of these in full at some point, but that point is not now. So back into a box they went, waiting for me when I finally get back to them. Which I sincerely intend to, just as soon as we sell our condo, buy another place to live, move, and get settled there. That’s only four things.

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