Souvenir

Eleanor and Bud Sneddon, 1940s

My father’s mother kept a journal. She wrote in this journal every day for nearly 30 years. Then, one day, she destroyed it. She destroyed it because of its honesty – she didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings if praise and criticism were read once she’d passed.

Three decades of familial record, lost in an instant.

I wonder if she realizes the wealth we lost in this action. Her journals were a record - of life and love, of good and of bad - as seen, experienced and filtered by the writer herself. I wonder if she realizes that in destroying her journal, she was erasing a past in an effort to protect a future. I wonder if she regrets it.

What I wouldn't give to have those journals now.

While her recorded life history is gone, mine is just beginning. This will be my journal - my record of life and love, of good and of bad. It will be honest and true, for better or for worse.

This journal will pay homage to what Grandma Eleanor set out to do some 30 thirty years ago. Her daily story may have been lost, but her granddaughter's won't.