Love in all its forms

I meant to have my last post be my final one for the semester, but then a kind peer expressed her love for a book I made for the Diary Repository. This title was chaptered “Love”, and here are some of it contents:

I once imagined that people’s private diaries would be filled with hateful words. I assumed people would surely turn to their diaries to express negative feelings towards others. After all, diaries are a safe haven where our innermost thoughts of others are most often kept secret. But I soon discovered that there were more feelings of love in the diaries I read than feelings of hate. Diarists so often declared their adoration for their partners, parents, pets, and children before they expressed distaste or anger. This was perhaps one of the most touching and humbling lessons I’ve gained from working with the diaries in the repository. In a space where a diarist could write anything, they more often express love than hate.

In 1943, Maywrites of her love for her husband and her pets:

“Saturday, January 3, 1943

Beautiful wakings-up when My Dear is by. Our times.

We felt that we would not see the puppy again, but in the afternoon, I thought I heard a little bell ringing outside. It wasn’t the kittens. I knew for they were with us. I went to the back door, but could see nothing, so I thought I had imagined the bells. Then I seemed to hear it again and I made the little sound with my lips, that always brings the puppy. Then, there he came around the house, all black and smelly with dirt. It made me cry a little.

Monday, January 12, 1943 

We thought we’d see if the kittens would sleep by the fire, but they kept getting up on the bed.
Chip crawled under the covers and went way down. There she came up and cuddled close to K’s neck.
When K went downstairs to let Paw in, he put the kittens down too.”

 

In 1930, K wrote of his love for his wife, nature, and his pets, who often tag along on his walks through wilderness:

June Thursday 12, 1930

God’s secretaries often send the wrong letters.

I take Paws back to the country, from where she followed us.

I kneel on a field-path and watch hatching grasshoppers struggling loose from white egg-covers.

The woods are June-beautiful.

Some hour of darkness, when you are lying alone, I shall come softly to your body and you will know suddenly all the dear wood and world odors that we have breathed.

 

And in 1944, amidst terrifying, life-threatening battles and hours spent in foxholes, Joseph writes that he hopes his family at home isn’t worrying about him:

 

Sunday, October 29th, 1944

About 8 A.M. we moved out on a vehicles to support the “A” camp advance – we had almost no resistance except 88 fire + I dug my slit truck 5 times before 2:15 + was glad to have it dug every time. We went thru a town + brought some sort of bread + apple farm 2 loaves + ½ pt jar for 50 Belge f. ($1.25) but as it is I’ve got about 1500 francs + nowhere to spend em. Now in foxhole #5 waiting for the outfit ahead to clean out a road block. Also 88 are at it again. Barrier first started digging in again. He says it’s “never” too deep. I hope my folks don’t worry too much since they won’t receive mail for some time. The 7th army had cut off the Boche. We are pushing + we now have em in a packet. Just now a 88 landed about 25 yds away + sprayed lead all over = none hit me directly, but plenty bit me. My watch stopped yesterday at 4 P.M. so now I have no watch. From that shelling 10 min ago one lad got it in the leg. So far there are a few in our co. Queen died, Moose, Harlon + Kirk Lüscher wounded. Cherokee got it in the back of the head by a sniper thru helmet + all. We moved about 150 yds forward to a far house + here dug our slit trenches under sniper fire. 2 guarded Sontag + Poppy Newell while Marcineck spear + I dug our holes: it’s much harder on your bellie too. March + I again bunked together

+ again fought together. We slept on 2 bundles and under 1 but was still plenty cold.

 

I hope these entries can brighten your holidays. As always, let me know if there’s anything more you’d like to hear about in the future!

Sincerely,
Alyna

Using the diaries in the repository to inspire poetry

A couple of weeks ago, a creative writing class visited the archives and explored the diaries, in hopes of finding some poetic inspiration. Their reacher tasked them with a unique assignment. They were to create an imaginary poet inspired by a diarist, fashion a biography for them, and write a poem in their voice.

I’ve written about a lot of diaries on this blog in the past few months. Some of them are obviously poetic. K’s pondering of nature and declarations of admiration for his wife, May, are nearly poems in and of themselves. Hope’s poetic portraits of landscapes she encounters while traveling are undoubtedly beautiful.

But it isn’t only the diaries with poetic language in them that can inspire writing or art. We have diaries in the repository written by young girls who express their love for music and their hatred for their siblings. And we have diaries written by elderly women who talk about little other than attending Church on Sundays. We have diaries written by Vietnam soldiers with witty humors and diaries written by World War II soldiers with a whole lot of love for their families back home. Any of these diaries, even the ones written with sloppy sentences and nearly illegible hand writing, can inspire us. It is the character’s we meet through reading them, the stories we learn, and the diarist we come to know that can stir poetry with-in us.

With that being said, I’d like to include some quotes here from students who found inspiration in these diaries:

One student wrote: “I just want to take like, days reading all the diaries. Having records of average people’s thoughts and not just ‘great people’ is of a lot of value historically but I also just think they are interesting and beautiful.”

Another very kindly agreed to share a poem he wrote inspired by one of the diaries:

“Working with the diaries in the archives was a surreal anachronistic experience for me. Ultimately I wrote a piece of poetry that was inspired by the works of Jamaican Poet Laureate Lorna Goodison and utilized a persona who responded to the travels of the diarist, as a native of that country.”

A photo of a poem Sean Beckford wrote in the imaginary persona of Myrna Davis

    I hope that this beautiful poem stands as a testament that the repository can inspire beautiful poetry, and that we could greatly benefit from expanding to include diaries written by more diverse diarists.

 

As always, let me know if there’s ever a diarist you’d especially like to hear about, and until next time, happy holidays!

 

Daughters find their father’s war diaries hidden away

About a month ago, I wrote a blog post here about the diary of a 19 year old American soldier fighting in World War II named Joe. I learned a lot from his diary, and I shared some of my newfound historical knowledge with you guys. But that entry felt incomplete. While I talked a bit about Joe’s personality – his warmth, his hopefulness, his caring nature – I didn’t write about him as much as I would have liked. This was because, while I could sense his goodness, I didn’t know him personally. I didn’t know anyone who did.

But that all changed this week, when I sat down with the women who gifted us his diary: his daughters, Sally and Gloria.

This past Summer, Sally and Gloria found their father’s diary, and made a photo copy of it to gift to the archives. I emailed them to let them know I had transcribed the diary and was interesting in learning more about Joe and anything they knew of his experience serving in the army. They were touched that someone had shown interest in their father’s diary and eager to help me learn more about him. As it turned out, they also had a second diary to bring me. Joe’s first diary had ended without the conclusion of his service. I’d wanted to see him return home safely and was over-joyed to hear that there was more to read.

A date was set, and Sally and Gloria visited the archives. They were incredibly warm, funny, and thoughtful. I spoke with them for over an hour, and they shed a light on their father’s life and service.

It had been nearly ten years since Joe had passed away when Sally found his diary. She was shocked and glad to find it. But, when she sat down with the diary, she was brought to tears more than once. As you guys know from my previous entry, Joe’s service was not easy. He was subjected to terrible things, such as spending days in trenches in the freezing cold and witnessing the deaths of his fellow soldiers. It wasn’t easy for Sally to read the horrors her father faced. But her and her sister were confident that despite them, her father was happy to have served his country.

He had been 19 when he was called to serve. He was studying at Princeton and hoped to one day become an airman, but the need arose for his service sooner than he thought it would. When I asked if he’d been drafted, the girls told me no. He’d always wanted to serve and had been enlisted in the army already.

I was curious as to whether Joe had talked about the war with his daughters. After all, his diary included some very gruesome and disturbing scenes. Joe would often be held in foxholes for over 24 hours, unable to leave and go to the bathroom or get something to drink. If he did, he’d subject himself to the possibility of getting shot and killed. Other times, he’d travel over night by foot in the rain, in temperatures cold enough to give him frostbite on his toes.

Sally and Gloria told me that their father did tell them about the war, but avoided the details he thought they couldn’t handle. He was always proud of his service, and the girls fondly remember him wearing his army cap out to mow the lawn on summer days. But he seemed unwilling to subject his daughters to the more emotionally traumatic aspects of his trip.

I asked if they could tell he had been affected by his experience in the war. The girls told me that he was a happy, family-oriented man. Their father had ensured they lived worry free lives. They had lived a sheltered childhood, filled with joyful trips to Chicago and local sledding hills in the Winter. Their father’s main hobby had merely been to spend time with them. Sally even recalled her father taking her to work with him.

I wanted to know if the girls could help me identify some of the figures in Joe’s diary, namely his family members who he wrote home to during his service. He’d often receive letters and treats from his mother, and someone by the name of “Charl”. I’d assumed at the time that “Charl” was merely a strange spelling of Carl. I thought perhaps he was referring to a brother or a close friend at home. Sally and Gloria told me that “Charl” was actually short for Charlotte, their mother’s name.

Sally said that she was surprised to find that before Joe’s departure, he’d dated a couple of women before meeting her mother. Now, as an adult, she understood that he’d likely been on dates with more than one woman before settling down. But as a child, she always assumed that there had only ever been her mom.  But as it turns out, in the earlier volume of his diary she dropped at the archives, Joe describes going on a date with someone else. He is disenchanted with her, though, and writes that he doesn’t believe she’ll be sad to see him leave for war. Shortly before leaving, he visits the local butcher shop and meets his daughter – Charlotte. Once he meets her, he never mentions another girl again. He was smitten.

There is much more to Joe’s story, but I don’t want to overwhelm my readers. Stay tuned to hear more! And as always, if there’s ever a kind of diary you’d like to hear about, please let me know.

The diary of a poet and a great lover of many people and things

Saturday, January 3, 1931

Beautiful wakings-up when My Dear is by. Our times.

We felt that we would not see the puppy again, but in the afternoon, I thought I heard a little bell ringing outside. It wasn’t the kittens. I knew for they were with us. I went to the back door, but could see nothing, so I thought I had imagined the bells. Then I seemed to hear it again and I made the little sound with my lips, that always brings the puppy. Then, there he came around the house, all black and smelly with dirt. It made me cry a little.

 

Sunday, January 4th, 1931

Last night I put the pink rose in our bedroom. It was beautiful in its gradual opening and I pick it up and smell it each time I am near.

We took a long hike today and were so pleased at how warm it was. The sky was blue.

On the edge of a hemlock woods – which K said was virgin timber, maybe over a hundred years old – we found some deer tracks and followed them a little way. Along the same road we found bird and rabbit and squirrel tracks in the snow.

The roads were very muddy later in the day.

When we reached home, our people were here and we each told them a bit about our plans for the future.

After our baths we came with apples and books to the fire. K sneezed and chip, who was washing herself; was scared and jumped up in the air. Laughter.

 

Monday, March 2, 1931

In the beginning, said a Persian poet – Allah took a rose, a lily, a dove, a serpent, a little honey, a Dead Sea apple and a handful of clay; when he looked at the amalgam – it was a woman

-William Sharp  

Today I purchased new hiking oxfords and a pair of red socks for myself. I have written somebody about that and other things – and there was his daily letters for me.

I had a dream
In which I looked at the sun.

When I was awakened,
All the peculiar beauties
I knew
Were gray….

In the last entry above, May includes a quote. It speaks of Allah, creating a woman, but seemingly not meaning to. He simply takes a rose, a lily, a dove, a serpent, a little honey, a Dead Sea apple and a handful of clay. He looks upon these things mixed together and sees a woman. While this description might not fit all woman, it certainly fits May. When I think of roses and lilies I think of her beautiful writing about her forest travels. when I think of honey and apples, I think of her sweetness. When I think of a serpent, I think of her darker days – the ones where she writes of her loved ones being far away. And lastly, when I think of a dove I think of their mourning calls and her sadness. She writes so often of being unsure, of missing others, or wishing to be “elsewhere”. But I also think of doves and their love for their young. And May, above all, is a lover.

She is a lover of nature, always writing beautiful testaments of her days spent  traveling through parks and forests with her husband, K. She often brings home a part of the places she explores – whether that be a leaf, a pressed flower, a lucky clover.

And she often seems so struck by the beauty of the nature she encounters that she draws about it for the day instead of writing. The best days are when she does both. Her drawings may not be detailed works of art, but they are of a very simple beauty and allow us to see as she sees:
    

And then, she’s a lover of K. She describes in such detail their warm (but often cold, literally speaking) travels through the forests and hills. They both admire nature and write of it, and she often records quotes from his own diary that she finds especially beautiful. And while it can be hard at times to imagine the scenes she describes, she includes a number of descriptions and images that help me imagine:

     
She writes of his poetry, both with feelings of admiration and envy (though I don’t think it’s necessarily, considering her own poetic talent). K would observe her as well as nature, often commenting on her appearance. She’d record the compliments she received from him. At one point, as they hiked through an icy scene in winter, she writes: “K liked the way the wind blew my hair.” She also writes of her cozy life at home, reading with him, bathing with him, and resting near the fire with their animals.  Aspects of their forest travels would often follow them home, which is exemplified by a quote from K’s diary: “Some hour of darkness, when you are lying alone, I shall come softly to your body and you will know suddenly all the dear wood and world odors that we have breathed.”

She very much cherished the things that K gave her, and kept them hidden away in her diary. Here’s a love letter stuck into the back of the book that K sent while away, as well as a pressed rose he gifted her after one of their
nature hikes:

 

 

 

She loves her pets, and treats them as though they are her children. She lets them nestle into her and K’s bed at night. Her dog, Paws, accompanies her and K on their forest hikes, playing in the mud and hunting small rodents. One day, when a puppy is lost, she is brought to tears upon finding it. There are sadly no images of her pets, but there is a receipt for the adoption of a kitten pasted into one of the entries (spoiler – it only costed a buck to adopt a cat in 1931!):

And then there is the love she had for poetry and the written word. She didn’t include a great deal of her own poetry (though it isn’t completely absent in the journal). Many of her later diaries the archives owns, from when she was a bit older, contain much more of her own work. But at this point in her life, she seemed to spend a great deal of her time reading and admiring other people’s prose. She’d often take the time to write out lengthy quotes from a novel, or paste in a poem cut from a newspaper or magazine:

May was not always writing joyfully about the things she loved. Often she was unhappy – worrying about the negative aspects of her and K’s relationships, and whether she was sure yet what she wanted to do with her life. But far more of her entries are filled with love than any other. And her diary is so unique because when she is upset, she never hides it. She writes openly and poetically about it, making me feel her emotions with her.

I would have liked to know May, I think. I would have been able to learn a great deal about love and honesty from her.

I hope you enjoyed this post, and as always, let me know if there’s any subjects you’d like to see discussed in future entries.

The diary of a poet traveling the wilderness with his love

Tuesday, February 18, 1930 

There was a god whose duty it was to fashion different kinds of trees, with their great and small heights, and with their smooth and tough bones… There has never been another god like him…. I saw his grave today. 

Friday, March 28, 1930

I should like to be the lesser divinity who looks to the birth and needs of wood seedlings.

M- came to meet me. She told of a robin along her way, and of its song making the tears come… I know, I know.

Monday, March 31, 1930 

She was the type who would twist a man’s heart in her slender, soft white hands and then toss it lightly away. Oh, why, she asked herself, must there always be two kinds of women in the world! There were the Liliths, who were madness of the dawn and dusk and bewitched men with starlight lunacy. And there were the Mays who wanted only to light a steady fire in a man’s heart, and know that it burned for them unwaveringly, a yellow lamp set in darkness. Ah, the Mays loved the glamour and the romance of it, too, but they wanted something deeper, truer, unending. And the Liliths gave only carmine lips that made promises they would never keep. 

 

K was a poet. This isn’t really disputable when you read his words. It feels as though you’re delving into not only a diary but a bound volume of poetry and prose you might find hidden between dusty library shelves. His poetry reads like something abandoned, but also like something that should be read by everyone, everywhere.

When I first got a hold of his diary, I immediately began searching the internet for his name. I thought for sure that his poetry had made it into the public eye. One of his poems (listed above as the final entry) was pasted in his diary, cut out from what looked like a page of newspaper. This made me curious as to whether he’d been published.  I decided to type a line from his poetry into a search engine: “slender, soft hands.” And there he was, in The Springfield Leader of Springfield, Missouri. His prose had been published.

This gave me a great amount of joy to see, yet, still I wished that there had been more. After all, his poetry touched me more than some of the major poets I read about in my literature classes. I wanted everyone to know it – to learn from it – as I had. So, I am sharing it with you.

K traveled often through Pennsylvania parks with his love, May . The way he wrote of the nature he encountered makes me yearn to be there with him. And the way he writes of May is even more striking. It makes you wish you could know her:

“Earth told me that she likes
to have her back scratched.

A man and a woman
learned to treat each other
fairly – and the world set them up as gods.

The hill jostles me happily
on his humped shoulder.

We were together when we climbed the hill, when we found the rabbit’s nest and the little ones killed by the dogs, and in the twilight under a wild apple tree.”

He describes nature as though it is alive in the way that we are. And this is something I can relate to. When I walk through the forest in the Autumn chill and the trees move in the wind, they remind me of living things – of children shivering or grown-ups dancing. I can understand what he describes so well, but I am envious of the way he’s able to say it.

And I’m envious of his company – how he has someone who will admire the Earth just as he does and “treat him fairly”, as he suggests in this poem. In one entry, he writes:

“I asked the sun for an especial fragment of fire for the cheering of my beloved’s face, but the sun looked upon her and advised that I choose a part of his light that touches the moon.”

And in another:

“My thoughts go to the body of you, and I am wondering if animals other than man dream of curving softness.” 

And in another:

“Some hour of darkness, when you are lying alone, I shall come softly to your body, and you will know suddenly all the dear wood and world odors that we have breathed.”

He writes of her so gently and so lovingly. He takes the most lovely images he sees on their hikes through nature – the moon, the woods, the hills – and sees them in her. I am most certainly romanticizing things, for at times he expresses doubt, anger, and sadness at the state of their relationships. But at times when he writes so beautifully of her, I can only imagine that they were very much in love.
One day, in early Fall, he passes a store selling apples, and an image comes to his mind. I like to think of this image as a memory of his childhood:

“There are apples in the stores – and as I pass by in the twilight my brain shows me a far-off picture of a boy who went to a certain farmhouse with his father, to spend an autumn day. And the hours were happy in gathering chestnuts, and walking in the half-bare cornfields, and watching the fowls eating their grain in the late afternoon. Afterwards the preparations for homegoing, and the flickering light in a storeroom, where Smokehouse apples were packed for taking away.”

He reminds me here that some of the best writing comes from nostalgia. I love to hear of people’s childhoods, just as they were. Sometimes poetry is best when it isn’t stuffed into stanzas, with strict meter and rhyme. I like it just like this, written like a letter or like a secret note. This is why diaries, to me, have some of the most beautiful writing.

I hope you enjoyed hearing K’s poetry and about his travels through the wilderness with his love, May. She also wrote beautiful poetry and prose about her love for K and their travels. Keep a look out for some of her work in the next blog post.

As always, let me know if there’s any subjects you’d be interested in hearing about.  We have hundreds of diarists from all sorts of backgrounds. Don’t be shy!

Diary of a poetic artist, traveling through the East Coast

Mid-June , and summer comes in earnest after the rains and coolness.

Whip-poor-wills in the moonlit evenings. Mockingbirds and thrushes and cardinals singing by day.

The baby chicks have an outdoor pen and graduate from the Mother Hen. 

Lettuce, radishes, turnips and swiss chard from garden. 

Great loads of sweet-smelling hay come in from the fields between thunderstorms. 

All-day Sunday visitors – baked hams and roast joints of mutton for Lunches… Dr. and Mrs. Weigert from Washington + the young son who hunts arrowheads and helps with hay in afternoon… Mr. and Mrs. Lockwood and young daughter from Arlington… Lloyd Milligan, his wife and babies, his mother and father from Fairfax… Lee + Harriet Delightful “Pat” Johnson…. Evenings reading aloud or listening to Victrola records. Violin practice, – E and E duets.

 

Gale wrote this diary in the summer of 1947, while she traveled across the East Coast. She was a 76 year old artist, though she seemed to be retired at this time, as she only rarely wrote of painting and/or creating. Her artistic nature really comes out in her writing. She is extremely observant of her surroundings and describes scenes she encounters in beautiful detail. She’s a lover of music and writing and talks about concerts she sees during her trip and books she reads.

She travels with a man name Edward, and a few other friends she collects along her travels. She begins her journey by traveling to the University of Virginia to attend the Virginia Music Festival. This trip is somewhat unsuccessful, as the concert is postposed time and time again due to rainy weather. But Gale doesn’t let this get her down, and she describes the scenery she encounters with vivid detail: “Between showers we see the Rotunda and beautiful lawn and old trees and gardens of Thomas Jefferson’s University”. 

On the way home, she visits the Blue Ridge mountains and the Shenandoah Valley. She mentions visiting the mountains multiple times over the course of her trip, and when I saw them for myself, I knew why!

After returning home for a bit, Gale sets off on the part of her journey she titles “The Trip North.” During this trip, her and her travel mate, Edward, visit the historic town of Leesburg, Virginia, and visit the Susquehanna River, which is the longest river on the American East Coast, measuring over 440 miles. Lastly, they visit the Chittenango Falls, a picturesque waterfall located in Fayetteville, New York.

Chittenango Falls, Madison County, New York 

Susquehanna River, spans the American East Coast

For the final leg of her trip, Gale’s travels are focused in Virginia. She visits the Kanawha Mountain, located in Charleston Virginia, and travels to the Allegheny mountains in Lexington, Virginia. This trip is focused mostly on visiting natural sights.

Kanawha Mountains, West Virginia

Allegheny Mountains, part of the Appalachian Mountains in the East United States 

Gale neglects certain details of her journey, and this can be frustrating at times. For instance, she travels with a man named Edward, though she never specifies who Edward is – whether he is a brother, a son, or a lover. And while she briefly names the people she visits and even lists their contact information in the back of the book, she often neglects intimate details regarding their personalities.

But while her lack of detail can be frustrating, it is also a blessing in disguise. For every bit of information regarding people and places she neglects, she makes up for it with a beautiful image! She wrote more about a journey than a destination. She wrote more of imagery than individuals. And this made her writing immersive and poetic.

Gale was passionate about gardening and wild flowers, and some of my favorite lines refer to plants and the animals that are attracted to them:

“June

Load of luscious strawberries to eat and to freeze. Pansies blooming. Honeysuckle fragrant everywhere, and roses beginning.”

“July

The Althea tree in bloom; also the Mimosa. 

“Hold all beauty – let it spread around”.

Hot sunny days and locust-filled nights. “Bob-whites” calling by day. Wren songs in the flowers – nasturtiums, zinnias and marigolds blooming.”

As I read her words, I look up the plants and animals she describes, and this allows me to feel I am there with her:

Althea Tree, in bloom 

Bobwhite Bird

I hope that you enjoyed Gale’s diary. Stay tuned for more, and as always, let me know if there’s any diaries you’d be particularly interested in!

The Diary of a Traveling dancer from 1946

MONDAY, FEBRUARY 11, 1946

Dearest Diary,

Left Halifax at 6 a.m. so of course missed the departure cause we were snoring loudly until about 10 a.m. We arrived in Halifax about 6 p.m. and when we woke up at 10 a.m. we were well into the harbor and anchored with an oil tanker latched on to our “Argentina” side giving us a much needed transfusion of oil – there had been a shortage ~ New York so we were due to be ~ Halifax for at least eighteen hours – The harbor was beautiful – oil tanks and smoking chimneys on two sides – and lovely pine-clad hills on the other sides near the harbor’s entrance – I went to the stern of the ship about 4:00 p.m. and watched the sunset – Such a lovely sight – the tall pines, slight traces of snow left on the hills, and a picturesque lighthouse at the entrance of the bay – and as the sun started to sink in the west it became the proverbial huge ball of fire and sea gulls flew across it and cast their shadows or seemingly cast black shadows on the sun – I had hot chocolate and cookies, which are served each afternoon and I was warm + cozy enjoying the beauty even though the air was terrifically spicy and there were small patches of ice forming around the ships. Saw a movie “Saturday Dinner for a Soldier” in the evening and went to bed at midnight – we were still in Halifax.

Had our first boat drill this afternoon –

FEBRUARY 27TH, 1946
(on a trip to Germany)

Eli took some nylon and rayon stockings with holes in them up to the sweet little girl who works in the beauty shop. – When she (Eli) came back she was almost in tears. – Said she felt so terrible because the girl started to cry and the mother also and ran over and kissed Eli and said now she knew all those things they said about the Americans weren’t true. The girl hadn’t had any silk stockings since 1941. – Wonder if their reaction was in sincerity. – I can’t decide whether I’m sympathetic or just downright skeptical. 

 

Jane was working as a dancer for the USO (United Service Organization) in the year directly following the end of World War II. She travels by ship to Europe with a dance group called the Hubba Hubbas, and describes her journey in brilliant detail. You might expect an extended cruise to become boring over time, but Jane is steadfastly positive about her experience and constantly busy. She dances and sings often, both to entertain others and to practice her craft. She’s also employed changing musical records for the ship and sees other U.S.O units put on musical shows. She even takes German lessons almost daily to prepare for her travels through Europe. Even when she’s idle, she finds ways to entertain herself, making valentines for her companions or befriending workers on the ship.

I fell in love with Jane’s beautifully poetic descriptions of the views she encountered from the ship. As her ship leaves Halifax, Nova Scotia, she spends some time parked in the harbor. She talks of the “lovely pine-clad mountains” and “slight traces of snow left on hills”. Over the course of her journey, she often rests on the ship deck and admires the views over the water. One day, she writes “The sea is very sloppy and there are no such high waves as there are huge swells which just rock the ship back and forth – back and forth.” Her descriptions include not only stark imagery but movement. She even engages the sense of taste by deeming the sea winds “spicy. I’ve never ridden on a ship before, but when I read her words, I feel I am there with her. She writes so vividly and poetically, and I am always sure to pause and really take in everything she is showing me.

I loved reading about Jane’s voyage and transcribing her diary, but I really wanted to read about her experience traveling abroad. I’ve been transcribing a diary about a young soldier in World War II, which you can read more about here. I thought it would be interesting to compare her experience to Joe’s.  Unfortunately, I worked mostly with her entries about her time on the ship.

The lucky thing about working for the Diary Repository at Beloit College is that I have a lot of smart, talented, and passionate people I work alongside. Two of my coworkers, Kerina and Sammy, transcribed parts of Jane’s entries that I wasn’t able to get to. In one, her and her fellow dancers travel to Germany. Here, one of her friends encounters a young girl who she decides to give a pair of stockings to. The girl, having went without stockings for 5 years, cries with joy. Her mother, too, is overwhelmed with emotion.  This would suggest that some German families were struggling in the years following the war. Jane, however, is skeptical that they are truly sincere. It is hard to determine why she might feel this way. Do you have any thoughts?

Jane’s time spent in Germany is very enjoyable. She and her fellow Hubba Hubba’s stay in a “cozy cabin” specially built for them. She shops at beauty stores and sees local sights. Her travels are certainly more enjoyable than Joe’s. While some countries still remain devastated by the war, they certainly seemed to be in a better state than they were during the war. But I wanted to know more, so I did a bit of research.

This article was extremely helpful. The author, Sharp, explains that Germany was, quite  frankly, in shambles in the years following World War II. There was absolutely no post-war plan for Germany, should they lose the war. Hitler didn’t want to admit that possibility at all, and he silenced any German Citizens that tried. So, when Germany was defeated, there was absolutely no plan for helping German citizens in the aftermath. They had no government, no resources, no promise of help. Berlin was divided into several parts and controlled by different allied powers. Because of this, Germans couldn’t easily collaborate with one another and share resources. Buildings all over Berlin were destroyed, broken down, and uninhabitable. Many houses had been destroyed, and people were scrambling to find family member’s with their homes still standing. It was very difficult to get adequate amounts of food. Livestock and crop fields had been destroyed during the war, and to add to that, roads around Berlin were ruined, so traveling to get food reserves was near to impossible. The British zone reduced German Citizen’s foods rations to a mere 700-1000 calories per day – and if you don’t know much about calories, that’s half of what a healthy adult should be eating. And if you didn’t think things could get much worse, war refugees returned to the country with a host of diseases – typhoid fever, dysentery, you name it. The war was not an immediate end to suffering for the Germans.

So, Jane did more than provide me with beautiful images from her travels by sea – she also told me a little bit of the state of Europe post World War II. When Jane visited, Germans were probably just starting to “pick up the pieces”, so to speak.

I really liked Jane’s positive personality. I liked being able to feel like I was with her because of how vivid her imagery was. I was really glad to find out that she went on to become very successful. She was only a young woman when she went on this trip, but she had already found her passion: dancing. When she returned to America, she opened her own successful dancing school and taught for most of her life.

I hope you liked reading her words as much as I did. Let me know what kinds of diaries/diarists you’d like to hear about in the future! Don’t be shy!

Diary of a a hidden poet

Saturday, Dec. 25, 1920.

Christmas Day. Very cold. I got so hoarse I had to whisper at night. Ma got 3 pts milk at Gray’s. Ma had cold + was hoarse too. Helen Crapser sent us a lb. butter. Lizzie + Eldeen came. They drove Dick. Lizzie brót me a silk bag. Teaman came. He gave me the peanut butter that he left here the other time. Adrian came + ate dinner + brót tiny Xmas. tree. Emerson brót 2 balls butter + can of plums + 2 cards. The stovepipe caught fire + nearly smoked us out. Emerson + Adrian took the pipe down. I sent letter + card to Celia Bernstein. At night Claude + Mary came to dinner + Arthur, Adrian + Stanley. We had: roast chickens + dressing, scalloped oysters, mashed potatoes, beet pickles, + cucumber, cranberry jelly, plum sauce, cheese, pork cake, fried cakes + mince pie. I gave Mary a painted shell. Grace Wilday sent me a calendar + Flora send Ma some candy.

Poem located in the back of the book

The puppy whimpers,
“Oh, the world of woes!”
Because the kitten
scratched his little
Nose.

The hawk with envy
sees the otter swim,
Not dreaming how
the otter envies him

If we would work with God,
we must be willing to wait
with Him, even though waiting is harder than working.

Winning, never Boast; and,
Losing, never do the least
Excusing.

The Statesman whom a Nation
most reveres,
Is he that serves, not he that
Domineers.

When you see an idle young
man you see a needy old
man in the making.

 

Enjoy the road. The best is
lost to those
who hurry blindly toward the jour-
ney’s claw.

When a man starts on the
downgrade he always expects
his brake to work.  

*here, brót is used a shortened form of brought. 

The thing about Bonnie is that you wouldn’t know she was a poet – and a painter, a photographer, and a creator, too – unless you took the time to read through the more mundane details of her daily life. And I know I say this a lot – especially with the female diarists I work with – but I only say that because it’s true. Female diarists from this era (at least the ones I’ve encountered) were not quick to share their experiences and innermost feelings. But I find it useful to consider the expectations they were likely faced with. In daily conversation, they were probably encouraged to speak less than men and share fewer of their opinions or ideas. Even if you’re a young woman reading this today, I’m sure you’ve felt encouraged to silence yourself at times. It would be hard for these women to overcome such feelings, even in their private diaries. So, I put in the effort – I dig through their diaries to get to know them because it feels worth it to me. It seems fair that if I’m willing to read a more immediately emotionally honest diary by a man that I’m willing to take the time to read a more reserved diary by a woman, in hopes of finding hidden truths.

Bonnie lived in a rural area of New York, far from the busy cities the state is known for. It’s safe to assume that she lived on a farm, as she was often selling milk and eggs and other food items, but she never confirms this. She was often ill and unable to handle a great deal of activity. Nearly every day she’d say she had a cold or a flu, but she was ill so often that I wondered if she had a chronic underlying condition. Because she spent so much time confined to her bed, her family and friends would come to visit her. She’d cook for them, clean up after their messes, and make them gifts, even given her poor health. I first became aware of her artistic abilities when she talked about crocheting clothing for her family members. She’d also collect shells and paint them as gifts for her friends. The detail and thought she put into these items was astonishing – and certainly someone without artistic ability wouldn’t be able to make such things.

She had many photographs she’d taken, of which she was very proud, and she was often sending to these to studios, perhaps in hopes that they might be published in a magazine. Of course, I was never able to see any of these photographs, but I know that she put a great deal of work into them from reading her entries.

The most disappointing thing about reading her diary was that I could read about her artworks, but I could never see them. I wondered about the clothes she crocheted for people – were they vibrant colors, did they include designs? I wondered about her shells – what images did she paint on them? And what about her photographs – were they mostly of nature, her loved ones, her town? I wanted to so much to be able to see these objects, but all I had was her vague descriptions.

In one entry, she mentioned sending out one of her poems, titled “Reminiscence”. I was disappointed, yet again, that she didn’t include any excerpts from this poem. I assumed this was another one of her talents that would remain a mystery to me. The more I read the diary, the more it became clear that she wasn’t going to share any of her poetry, or any of her photographs or clothing for that matter. I was upset and almost went so far as to wonder if I’d wasted my time.

But then, on the last couple pages of her diary, I was graced with a gift. She’d written down one of her poems in its entirety – the one prefacing this blog entry. She didn’t title it or sign it, so at first I thought it was simply a poem she admired and decided to write down in her diary. But when I typed some of the lines into Google, I wasn’t able to find the poem. I knew that she wrote poetry because she sent it into publishers. From these details, I gathered that this poem was an original work. And it was a beautiful one, at that. I’m an English major, and a lot of the poetry I generally admire has beautiful imagery but a vague message. I feel like Bonnie’s poem has a very clear message – multiple messages, at that – which I can reflect on and learn from. One stanza particularly resonated with me: “The hawk with envy / sees the otter swim, / Not dreaming how / the otter envies him”. I so often look to others and believe that they’re doing so well. I think, “Their work is easier. Their health is better. Their lives are probably anxiety-free and happy,” and this only serves to put me down. I’m sure that there’s others who look to me and think the same thing, and if I could recognize this, I’d feel a lot better about my own struggles. I know this sounds more than a little cliche, but it’s entirely true – I don’t often reflect on this. I don’t like when people tell me, “Well, other’s have it worse,” But these lines don’t chastise me for feeling envious others. They simply remind me that others may feel envious of me, too. It is the simple nature of animals to feel envious of others. It is when we recognize this that we can feel less alone.

So, this is how I found a hidden artist in a little diary from the 1920s. Bonnie wasn’t healthy – she didn’t travel the world, and she wasn’t overly confident in herself. Maybe this is why her art didn’t make the splash I think it should have. But I am able to see it today, and enjoy and learn from it, and I think that’s really meaningful. I hope you love her poetry just as much as I do.

19 year old soldier in World War II

Warning: Graphic and sensitive images

Left for the Third Day:

The 3rd day brought a decided change in the people + country. We crossed the Belgium Border without knowledge of the fact, until we saw “The Bank De Belge.” Here the people were also clean and very enthusiastic. We then received a real surprise – we entered brussel’s. It was grand! The people, not having seen american troops before were very excited, they threw fruit + souvenirs to us. The little Belgian flag or red yellow and black disk was the most thrown. The residential district was set aside from the factory part of town. For being a “Have Not Nation” they are advanced and modern as ourselves.

Oct – 26- 1944

Last fight at 8. We dug in, in a radish patch with no rifle protection – I had just dug in + eaten when we were moved out with [?] to spearhead into the line 2 miles – got about 500 yds + found it was a trap we dug in again (very very close together – was in by 4 + wakened to beat off a counter attack at 5 – It didn’t come. Snipers on my left + right (can’t observe without being popped at) Boche about 30 yds away.

Oct 27 Thurs, 1944

Some of our tanks moved up (Br. churchills) + the other two Regt’s are to attack this A.M. Now a Robot Bazz Bomb just flew over – a very eerie sound. Our 105s have been sending shells over us all A.M. That means there should be plenty of holes to drive into. Some boy is singing “Remember Me To Carolina” It sounds good to a disgusted doughead.
I hope to God, that if I return, my children never must undergo this hell.
Today ended with a light rain.

Oct 28 – Sat –

We attacked yesterday noon at 4

= took about 6-8 prisoners – it ended in rain – we moved to Phase line 7, then the Bosch had moved out + we dug in, unobscured between two hedgerows. I spent a very wet + cold night with only an overcoat + no straw. About 7 the 413 moved in front + we were taken to a rigg ainzation [?] [?] + rest. At 2 P.M. we again moved out as a sniper flushing out fit. We moved on vehicles + went through some small Dutch town where everyone wore orange, the national color. We also saw a few very young German snipers (15 or 16) They put me on flank guard which is a very unsafe feeling. We saw many ruined bldgs + the order came down to shoot all dogs on sight as they carried Boche messages. We moved into an area about 5 kilo from Bruda on the Sheldt [ a river in West Europe ] + there bed down for an extremely cold night. My toes are now frostbitten + hurt very much. They caught an old woman shooting our boys as they went thru.

Sunday – Oct 29

Now in foxhole #5 waiting for the outfit ahead to clean out a road. Black. Also 88 are at it again. Barrier first started digging in again. He says it’s “never” too deep. I hope my folks don’t worry too much since they won’t receive mail for some time.

* Boche is a derogatory word for a German person, especially a German soldier.
* Transcribing can be hard! Some words are illegible and this is indicated in the text with a [?]. If you have any knowledge of wartime and thus what these illegible words might be, please do reach out!

 

I am not a historian. I know very little about wartime, and honestly, I am somewhat ashamed. I think that knowing about world wars is really important to my understanding of not only the United States, but of the whole world, and the way we all interact with one another. So, I have a proposition: why don’t you read this diary with me and we can learn together?

A 19 year old soldier named Joe wrote this diary in 1944 while serving abroad in the United States army. One of the most interesting things about his diary is that he often writes about spending time in small towns in allied countries, such as France and Belgium. In these entries, he sounds almost like a traveler rather than a soldier. One moment, he describes a night out with his fellow army men, seeing a movie in a language that is unfamiliar to him. The next moment, he is in a trench, watching his fellow soldiers die and fearing for his life. And by next moment, I mean next sentence. For me, as a reader, this is very shocking. It is nearly impossible to fathom how he, the writer, must have felt.

He begins by writing about his unit traveling through Northern France and then to a small town in Belgium. He learns new languages, visits theaters and historical landmarks, and makes unsuspected friends. His mood is cheerful and carefree during this time. Townspeople often greet him and his fellow soldiers with open arms, praise, and even gifts. This surprised me. I’ve often heard of the trope that French people think little of Americans. My high school French class actually traveled to England and France, where I felt my friends and I were received with a great deal of annoyance and hostility. This had me wondering – why was Joe and his fellow army men received with such kindness and appreciation?

I found a very brief and easy to read history of World War II on SparkNotes, which shed some light on this very question. The war officially began in 1939, when Adolf Hitler, the chancellor of Germany ( I’m SURE you know who he is ) declared war on Poland. France and Britain immediately declared war on Germany because they were loyal to Poland and also fearful of Hitler coming for them. They were right to be scared because within a year, Germany had conquered Denmark, Norway, Belgium, the Netherlands, and sure enough – France. Britain was the only country that went unconquered because their Royal Air Force really saved their tails and pushed back German troops.

Understandably, French citizens were scared and needed help. In June of 1944, British and American forces launched the D-Day Invasion, which, put simply, was a plan of attack to push German troops out of France. I had found the answer to my question! American troops were just about the only hope that the French had left, and so of course they received them with open arms.

Another thing that I found odd as I read these entries was how slowly the troops moved while fighting German troops in Belgium. I felt horrible for Joe. He’d spend a night in a trench, terrified and cold, and then describe traveling a mere 50 yards to spend another night in a trench, only a small distance from where he began!

I was able to figure out why this was by reading a bit from this additional brief history (but certainly longer than SparkNotes). Belgium was so cold in October of 1944 that troops were often met with frozen mud – digging through the land was very difficult and unloading supplies in a timely manner was also hard. Thus, troops advanced quite slowly.

So, from only a few short entries, I learned a lot. Sure, it’s true that I often have to do a lot of research on the side, but the diarist ignites my interest and the diary provides me with a map to follow. Plus, I’m finding there’s a lot of resources out there that make learning about all this history a lot less difficult than the academic papers I’m assigned in class. I hope you were able to learn something from this entry, and I hope that you will continue to learn more with me.

Joe makes me want to learn because I really feel for him. He’s a kind and selfless boy. When he’s in the trenches, he’s thinking about his future children and hoping their lives won’t be filled with so much fear. When he’s in danger, he is thinking about his parents at home and hoping they don’t worry. He makes me really want to follow his journey and learn from him. I hope you feel the same.

This entry is the first in a series of installments, so be sure to look out for the next!

The diary of a 16 year old girl living and working in California in the early 1920s

While working for the repository, I’ve noticed a trend among female diarists in the early to mid 1900s. They never share a great deal of emotion. They aren’t quick to delve into their passions or the things that make them upset. While a diarist today might lay out his/her/their heart and frustrations, many of these female diarists merely record their experiences with little commentary. Lily was no exception.

Her life was by no means boring. She was sixteen, not much younger than I am now, and she was always taking odd jobs and traveling with her boyfriend, Harry. It was interesting to read about her life, yet, I felt that she didn’t share her emotions: I found myself yearning for more insight into her feelings.

I eventually learned that there were little clues sprinkled throughout her diary regarding her feelings towards the people around her. But more on that in a bit…

I noticed that Lily did a great deal of household chores not only for a woman she cared for professionally, Mrs. Baker, but also in her own home, where she lived with her two brothers, Max and Cliff. She also prepared meals for her siblings and cared for their chickens. I wondered why such a young girl had so much responsibility on her shoulders.

When transcribing diaries, I often feel like a detective, trying to find out as much I can about the diarist and the time they lived in. Sometimes the only apparent details in the diary regarding the diarist’s identity are a first name, a place of residence, or even just a workplace. From these details, I have to try and identify who the diarist is and research their lives so that I can better understand their circumstances. In the case of Lily, she included her whole name on the front cover of her diary, so I was able to discover a great deal about her family history. I gathered from my research that the absence of Lily’s parents was a significant factor in her workload. Her mother passed away several years before she made this diary and her father lived apart from her and her brothers.

Lily not only had the burden of caring for the home, but she also had to find work and financially support her family. She’d often pick cherries at a local farm and receive payment for her work. About halfway through the diary, she moved from High Grove, California to Ontario, California in order to work at a cannery.

The parts of the diary I enjoyed reading the most, and I have a feeling she enjoyed writing the most, were the travels she took with her boyfriend, Harry. She comments that she and Harry travel together often because they are not yet married and do not have a home where they can spend time together easily. They travel to beautiful destinations such as Yucaipa, Smiley Heights, and the Redlands. These places may sound boring if you’ve never been to them, but a picture may reveal the natural beauty they encountered there:

I could really tell how much she looked forward to her trips with Harry. She really seemed to love him, and from what she reveals, he treated her with kindness and acceptance. The few times I was really able to get inside Lily’s head and understand her feelings were when she’d add Harry’s quotes into her entries. Occasionally, she’d even add quotes of her own. She wouldn’t preface them, or explain them at all. Rather, she’d have them appear italicized in the text and offer no comment on them. Some of these quotes include:

 

“I wish we had a home and we wouldn’t have to chase around this way.”

“Sweet sixteen and never been kissed”

“I’ll be glad then we don’t have to think about the time anymore, won’t we?”

“Do you think enough of me Lily to marry me – what do you think about getting married?”

 

Sure, it frustrated me that these quotes had little context. But I admire the simplicity of them. I could see how the words he said to her really resonated with her. And by reading them, they really resonated with me, too.