The Fox(?) again. This time with Alice, Ed, and Brother. I enjoyed it in a passive sort of way.
I should like to write a story. It would be fantastical, utopian - or some such: There would be two women and one man of importance - and two separate and distinct worlds. One would be a place of peace, understanding, sympathy and love - the other a world of work, hilarious play, passion. One would women for each world and each world for one man.
If ever I become "experienced" I shall write my story which I've been thinking of for several years. I don't know enough about life yet to be able to write on its "worldly" side but I'm young enough to dream of its perfection.
Alone, alone, alone. I love to be alone.
Bridge again and I had the highest score at our table. I know it would be hard for George or John to believe.
Not a single member of the family has asked me where we had dinner Monday evening or what theater we went to.
This dual personality of mine is causing me a lot of trouble.
"I want to be naughty and yet with nice."
How people do change. When I was a schoolgirl, the longer and thicker one's hair was the better she liked it. Today I had my hair thinned out and shortened.
There is no such thing as "just one kiss."
A married man can be fascinated by a young and pretty girl and still love his wife dearly. He knows that her place could not be re-filled.
There are different kinds of love. The kind of love I have for John could last all through my life although I married and loved my husband. But how few husbands could see it??
Once more I have spent and evening with him. He is stranger than ever and tries to lead me to believe (or tries to fool himself into believing) that he is very wicked, wild and daring.
He has applied for a position in California and asks if I would care to go there with him.
I have learned much in the past few weeks but I'm afraid even to write it here lest someone should read it.
"Wishing, waiting, heart first breaking" - for love. I shall never be able to trust myself again. I'm so lonely and so hungry for love - real love - that I fear anyone who might show me a little attention would do. I have to guard against that and consequently I am apt to fight real love that might enter my heart.
I'm in love with love?
In love with John?
Could he be waiting for me to call or write to him?
What's the use? I can't make him happy.
When the parade of children went by this morning - I could not keep the tears back that insisted on appearing. It brought back so vividly the first chapter of my life. We were all really happy then.
The second chapter was filled with intense joy, or rather bitter agony - alternately, one making up for the other.
And now I have had seven weeks of the third chapter, aimless, painless, joyless - waiting for the fourth chapter.
If John should every want me back - I won't be the ignorant, unkissed, unpetted sweetheart that I was.
Sometimes there are whole days when the thought of him hardly enters my mind but today has been different. I have thought of him at every turn.
"Right or wrong - I can't help it! Why did the good Lord have to make you so lovely, so attractive, so desirable. What can I do?" Why could it not have been John? As is - it was just a pretty speech that had no effect on me. "You're like a magnet driving me to you and I am defenseless."
Some girls are so artful and tactful - but I am not. When I try to be - it is actually a strain on me nervously.
Sophistication is not a trait of mine and to assume it is hard because it is not natural.
"Being oneself" is O.K. if one's self is attractive to others. I'm just not the kind of girl men like and the trouble lies in the fact that I like men.
I'm finding out that many things John told me are true even though I blamed him for being an extremist and not like other people.
God bless him - he was right about so many things. I wish I had him back. Hughie claims John still loves me.
This is the journal of Virginia Lee Scott, my grandmother, written when she was seventeen and first dating my grandfather, John Arnold Wilson. It's a dairy published by Media Drug Stores and includes space for two entries per day, with facts about the era printed at the bottom, which I have included in italics. Following, 1928, is the journal of John Arnold Wilson, my grandfather, at age nineteen and in love with my grandmother, followed by my grandmother's journal in 1931.