Finally I made up my mind to tell him some of the many reasons I should not marry him. If only it works. Oh I hope he will come back with the reasons why we should marry. There are many for that too. He has never actually asked me to marry him - but he talked of "when we're married." I want him to tell me why he wants me - for I think he does. Spinsterhood? Of course I don't want to live a life of "single blessedness." I want him - but most of all I want him to want me and tell me so.
I wish I had some unbiased good friend with whom to talk it all over. But no one could understand because no one knows all the facts, all the feeling of both of us.
Tonight when he called he hurt me again. "We ought to have it typed," he said. I did my best to pick(?) a conversation with him.
Is it possible that he loves me and still keeps on criticizing and hurting me every time he sees me or calls. It has been more than a year sine he has called attention to my worth traits that I may have.
"Ladies, All"!! They may have been ladies! A play can make sin and sinning delightful! I hope I am not a prude or a coward. What else can I be these days if I will not go "the limit"? I've given John everything but that. Oh, dear God, four long years. Were I to give him that it would be four times four before we would be married.
I wish I had the courage to give him up altogether. I do not think it is love that holds us together. It is habit.
I love him so very much - I've spoiled him. Why does he no longer spend Sunday evenings with me?
Miss Steel claims that she has never known anyone with a mouth as pretty and perfect as mine. "Does your beau ever tell you that?" she asks me. "Never," I have to say. ("Vanity, thy name is woman.")
I like to walk with him but that sore foot is a worry to me. He has suffered and doctored for well over a year and it is no better.
He was so sweet tonight. Perhaps it was because I did not antagonize him and he is feeling physically better.
At last I've met the object of my hero's hero worship. He seems to be a fine man and I like him but why does John think he is nearly perfect?
Loving John, I do not like to see him bow to another, especially his brother. Brotherly love is always admirable but hero worship is not.
I call the gentleman "Charlie" and he is more than twice as old as I am.
I have made an error impossible to correct. - I fell in love at seventeen. He has made me think and do and act as he does (being seventeen it was a joy) until I have lost my individuality. He has had the best four years of my life - seventeen to twenty-one. I want a home of my own now and I want to love and be loved, After having tried to take every interest in him - having thought of him, of his likes and dislikes, before every act or deed, in return I get sarcasm, absolute lack of enthusiasm at seeing me. I believe that he still loves me. And I must love him or I would not care so much. I am crushed and hurt and trying hard to keep him and the family from knowing it. "What's worrying you?" said the doctor. "Nothing," said I.
"Fisherman's Luck" is delightful. I must re-read his essay on "Talkability."
"The one person of all the world in whom talkability is most desireable, and talkativeness is least desirable, is a wife."
The potted ivy on my table is growing beautifully. God must know how much I love it and how very much I want it to keep on growing forever just as I will cleave to John forever - in spit of my threats (to myself) to the contrary.
I hate, detest, loathe, and despise "bridge." I have made effort after effort to play and have failed every time.
John still has a nasty cold and hasn't a thought for me. Almost every time I see him, he manages to hurt me. Why should I put up with it? Why is it I don't tell him when he does it? Doesn't he realized it?
Henry Van Dyke is one of the few philosophers I've met who isn't a pessimist. He is a real joy.
"Joy is just as much a duty as is beneficence." "The only philosophy that amounts to anything, after all, is the secret of making friends with our own luck."
This evening I have rehearsed and rehearsed the reasons why I should not marry John. There are many - but I've washed and waved my hair, treated my face and hands - because he is coming tomorrow evening to see me. Why?
One thing I want to do before I die is prove to John that I've got a brain. Oh hell! Why should i? He's got a brain and I've got a heart. Who knows which is to be preferred?
"Character can always control conditions."
"It all seemed worthwhile."
I am bored and discouraged. It may be the natural reaction from the Christmas and New Year's excitement; however, that does not alter the fact that I am carrying out the doctor's orders to "Lead a Simple Life." Tonight I know of absolutely nothing that would please me.
I just read a quotation "The only wasted day is the day lived apart from God." Could that be the reason last year seemed so wasted to me?
I miss the company of people my own age.
I miss dreaming.
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.