TheBanyanTree: Dear Diary

[Margaret R. Kramer]

Ever since we’ve moved into this house, I’ve been hunting for my handwritten
journal I began back in 1970 when I was a messed up teenager.

I’ve searched in every tub, in every box, in every drawer and couldn’t find
it.  

I really wanted to find it after Ray died, because he had taken pictures of
us from our first meeting, and I placed them in the journal.  I really
wanted to see them.  But I could never find the journal.

I keep our fake Christmas tree under the stairway in the basement.  In that
area of our basement is a workshop, which Ray never used, but he stored some
tools there and other stuff.  The tree box is stored on top of some tubs, so
I thought, before I put the tree away; let me check those tubs one more time
for the journal.

I lifted the lid of the tub, and there it was, right on top, that darn
journal.  I know I’ve looked in that tub before and didn’t see it.  Maybe my
eyes weren’t ready to find it at the time I looked.

I was so happy I found it.  It contains all my neat handwriting from March
26, 1970 through July 21, 2002.  I never really wrote in it consistently,
just little outbursts now and then.  Now I just keep an online journal,
which will be vapor when I die, because I keep no copy on my computer nor
anywhere else.  That’s the one bad thing with virtual writing; it can
disappear if it isn’t copied onto another media.

So I have my photos of Ray and me when we had that loving glint in our eyes.

That basement workshop in my house has been the source of a couple other
finds.  Shortly, after Ray died, I found one of his journals lying on a
shelf.  Now, I had been down there in that room many times before and after
Ray died, so I don’t know how that little notebook journal got there, but
there it was.

It wasn’t anything interesting, really, other than the fact Ray wrote it.
It was about one of our cruises and Ray kept all kinds of details about the
weather and stuff.  Of course, I kept it, and now it’s in his tub where I
keep all his treasured memories.

I found something else of Ray’s in that workshop, too, but I can’t remember
what it was.  I know it was something he had written, but I just can’t
remember.

It seems like that basement workshop is where Ray leaves little presents for
me.

Speaking of online journaling, I can also keep track of Ray’s family on
Facebook.  Two of his daughters are my “friends,” so I can vicariously share
all the family events.

It’s funny how life keeps moving along without Ray.  His grandchildren are
getting married and having children of their own.  His own children are
getting grayer and heavier.  I always think that time should stop for his
family and that they wouldn’t change since he died.

But they change and I change and life goes on.  Ray is riding along with it,
I’m sure, but it’s weird for me to see his family can grow and change
without him witnessing it.   

I know Ray would have loved Facebook once he got the hang of it.  He liked
the concept of social networking prior to his death, but it’s exploded since
then and much easier to use.

He would never have liked Open Diary, because he wasn’t a writer, but
Facebook would suit him fine, just short sentences summarizing what he was
doing would have been perfect, plus upload a few pictures, and he could get
immediate reactions from friends and family. I can see him becoming a
Facebook junkie.
If you looked outside right now and saw the bright sun, you’d swear it was
summer.  But if you stepped outside and slipped on that hard, icy snow, and
felt the cold air slapping your face, you would know that the sun is only an
illusion, it’s darn cold outside!

It was -16 degrees below zero Fahrenheit when I got up this morning.  I keep
the thermostat at 60 degrees at night, so I rushed to get that furnace
running to warm up the house.

I haven’t gone anywhere today, but my Barnes and Noble and Borders gift
cards are burning a hole in my pocket, so I might go out later and look for
books.

I’m getting a little cabin fever anyway.

And maybe I’ll buy a special pen for this old journal of mine.

Margaret R. Kramer
margaretkramer at comcast.net
margaret.kramer at polarispublications.com
www.polarispublications.com
www.linkedin.com/in/margaretkramer

Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth, for the touch of a
friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire:  it is the time for home. 
-Edith Sitwell