Every so often, I go on a de-cluttering binge. I sort through my clothes and make piles to donate. A few ancient T-shirts and pairs of jeans that are too threadbare or full of holes go into the trash.
My office received the de-clutter treatment a couple of weeks ago. I went through stacks of papers. Filed some. Ran others through the shredder. I still have a pile or two that need to be organized. But there’s one cubby in my office shelving unit that I can’t de-clutter. In that cubby, I keep my journals.
I have been an avid journaler for ages. In high school, I kept one of
those small bound diaries with a lock. I have no idea where that one went.
But
I again started putting down my thoughts on a mostly daily basis three decades
ago. At first, I used spiral-bound, college-ruled notebooks. Nothing frilly. At
some point, someone gifted me with a beautiful notebook designed for the very
purpose of journaling. It had a cat on the cover. From then on, no more
notebooks purchased from the back-to-school sales for me.
On a whim, I dug through my stacks of hoarded journals and found one dating back to August of 1992. I have a feeling there are earlier ones somewhere in this house, but opening this one and reading a few entries was enough to transport me to a different time in my life.
Sunday, August 30, 1992
The remains of Hurricane Andrew had squelched our plans to go camping Friday, and we decided to scrap the whole weekend’s camping trip, figuring the trails at Beaver Creek had to be a muddy mess at best.
(Beaver Creek is an Ohio state park where we used to take our horses and ride the trails.)
Reading on, I revisited a time when we rented movies (VHS, I bet) and cleaned stalls. There are mentions of friends who have passed on and a few who are still in our lives. I wrote about a favorite restaurant and shop, both of which are now shuttered. I was baking zucchini bread, brewing sun tea, and handmaking Christmas gifts.
I was still riding my beloved old mare, Jenny, and attending the long-gone Hickory Auction. Alexander was my house cat, while Barney lived in (no surprise) the barn, keeping the mouse population under control.
And my mom and dad and father-in-law were all alive and well.
For the most part, my journals are badly written and contain boring day-to-day stuff. Who came to visit. What I fixed for dinner. Mundane tasks. And yet, there is no way I would part with any of them. Opening a page is like striking a match to ignite the memories of my youth.
Do you keep a journal? Have you ever done so? If you do, do you keep all of them? Feel free to share a few of your journaled memories.
