I asked John what could be less attractive than a woman with a cold.
"Some women without colds," was his reply.
The one thing in this world I want is to be his wife. Mind, body and soul.
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I am such an ordinary, everday mortal! I even have a head cold, sore throat, ringing ears, headache, tearful eyes, a red nose and a husky voice.
I asked John what could be less attractive than a woman with a cold. "Some women without colds," was his reply. The one thing in this world I want is to be his wife. Mind, body and soul.
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It seems that the mood I am in determines whether Walt Whitman is attractive or distasteful to me.
I wish when evening comes thatI could recall every thought that has flashed through my brain druing the course of the day. It seems that my most worthwhile thoughts and ideas come at a moment when I can't give them the room or time to develop and they disappear as fast as they came. There are literally dozens of topics about which I would like to converse with John but he is like a turtle in a shell which I cannot break through. Perhaps I can liken him to an ice covered pond that I may be be able to thaw someday. But I love him just the same. I've gone another step toward fixing my room. The headboard is now covered in chinz and the ruffle to go around the bed is ready to sew to the spring's cover. Another evening and this old white iron bed won't be.
I rather like it without any foot at all and the old footboard at the head. It makes me blue to fix it. An elderly woman came in the bank with a small gift for the young lady who had been kind to her a fortnight ago. Though I did not recognize myself as being the young lady, I realize now it was I, and though I didn't get the gift I feel amply rewarded for the insignificant service rendered her. I love to hear John say "Mother." There is a gentleness and respect in the very tone of his voice.
Nancy loves her Uncle Jack. John is so gentle with her that I'm almost envious. I wonder what kind of father he will make. A tiny, little bit strict, I hope. I hope he will be quite severe with his wife. I'm bored - but granted! It shows my lack of wit.
Twice this week I've dreamed I was married to John.
One vision I've had almost all my life is living alone. I can picture an apartment of my own, life by myself - I've always been able to see it plainly while life with John is the vaguest kind of vision. This evening we had dinner in town in a sandwich shop. We went to see Dracula*, and walked the street looking longingly in the windows of at least half a dozen book shops. How will this night look to me twenty, thirty, or forty years from now? Will I be single, married to John; or someone else? Will I be poor, rich, miserable or happy? Watch the movie here! Home again.
I've aquired something new. Fear when I'm out alone at night (which is very seldom). I was actually out of breath when I came in this evening. Solitude is one thing I've had little of and I long for. An evening alone in my room - undisturbed with a book or some sewing, is my idea of absolute luxury. "I hope you know better than to let tonight worry you."
He is a dear. John has his faults but he can always meet an emergency. He is going to make the world's greatest husband. I have every confidence in him. |
ContextThis 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. Archives
April 2018
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