A Century of Journaling

As I mentioned, my maternal grandmother's funeral was last week. She was 95 when she passed away—a day before her 96th birthday.

Along with my sisters and cousin, I had the privilege of putting together a collage of pictures and journal entries to commemorate her long, eventful life. I had never realized that Grandma Stroh kept so many journals. She wrote about daily events, what movies she saw (she was partial to Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy films) and her childhood. She wrote:

I was born in Erie Township, Ottawa County, Ohio, on January the 21^st 1910. I think in the late afternoon. Mother said they had had a snowstorm on the day before and they were afraid the Doctor would not be able to get through the snowbanks with horse and buggy—I don’t know if he owned an automobile then—a Chandler—or not! Anyway he arrived and I was born into a cold world. Mother had made my baby clothes herself—someone said I needed a bonnet to keep my head warm. And mother told Dad to get out the 2 bonnets she had made from scraps of outing flannel. And so my life began.

During her life, she taught in a one-room schoolhouse, raised three children, earned her college degree at the age of 59, and enjoyed 50 years of marriage with my grandfather, who she describes as "kind, thoughtful, friendly, and a good conversationalist."

I always remember my grandmother as a wonderful correspondent. Once I went away to college, she started sending me letters regularly—and real, actual mail is like gold in the dorms. She had the most amazing memory; she would reminisce about the dorm food when she was at BGSU for her teaching certificate in the early 30s. She knew the address of her first apartment from 1936 and the names of all the neighbors.

Realizing what a faithful, good writer my Grandma was kind of puts my writing into perspective. I feel like it's continuing on a family tradition. It's in the blood, an unavoidable compulsion.

Of course, I think the journal gene may have skipped me by. My mom gets up early and writes in her journal every morning before work. But I'm awful at keeping a regular journal. This blog is probably the closest I've come! I would only ever write in my journal when I was seriously depressed (so I guess I did write in it faithfully for most of middle school;).

I just had a hard time believing that anyone would want to read about my boring, everyday life. Although is the purpose of a journal to be read? If a tree falls in a forest and someone writes about it in a personal journal, does anyone hear it?

I wonder why my grandmother wrote in her journals. Did she consider it a creative outlet? Was it just a part of her daily routine, like grocery shopping or making dinner?

No matter why she wrote, I'm glad that she did and that she passed them on to my mother for safekeeping. I miss her and will continue to—as does anyone who knew her. But I'm looking forward to getting to know her better through her journals. And carrying on the tradition.