Every generation thinks they are the first ones to invent being young. We meet our parents as mature adults, overly concerned with our curfews, our vegetable consumption, or our length of skirts. For me, it was very difficult to imagine my mother as a young girl. I recall how insulted she was when I suggested high school must have been so different, “Back Then.”

I have a confession. When I was about nineteen, I read the diary my mother wrote when she was fourteen. Questionable ethics aside, what struck me hardest was realizing that if she had given me that diary to read when I was fourteen, and if she had re-read it herself at that time, we could have reached a better understanding of each other. Because she was me when she was fourteen and vice versa. We had the same concerns, pains, and self-conscious worries.

Another confession; I never told her I’d read it.

Reading someone’s diaries without their permission while they are still alive is an intrusive thing to do. After they’ve gone, sorting through papers and the private bits of a life, opening a hand written journal feels like an overstep. Yes, but; I regret hearing someone tell me they threw out their previous generation’s notebooks and letters, “Out of respect for their privacy.” I love it when I hear someone’s grandmother put a sticky note on the box, “Feel free to read.”

I know my mother re-read her journals in her senior years. She added comments in the margins with her shaky, senior handwriting. She had a long illness and she lived in a house with a fireplace. My theory is she couldn’t bear to see them go up in flames–those notebooks represented her youth. 

Biographers, Nancy Mitford, for example, argue that letters and other ephemera left behind are fair game. If it was important that no one read certain papers, or journals, then those papers would have been destroyed. My mother was a Nancy Mitford fan, so I borrow heavily on that defence.

After she died, I read through all her notebooks, sorting out which year was which and searching to find the rest of 1936. I spent hours deciphering her uniquely indecipherable handwriting. But what a surprise to realize she’d once been a girl. Logically of course, we all know this about our parents, but I honestly had no idea she dated so much, loved to flirt and dance, or was so social. 

Or… that she had a crush on my uncle before she crushed on my father. What?

I don’t regret reading the diary when I was nineteen. I do regret that I didn’t confess it to her. It might have opened up an important conversation because she and I never fully recovered from my obnoxious adolescent rebellion. Now, here I am, my own high school years stretching into the, “Back Then and Beyond,” territory and I’m touting what a sweet read her book is. In truth I think she would be flattered I found her writing worthy to publish. If others enjoy it too, I believe she would be thrilled that her words, stories, and personality found an audience. 

I will be hosting book launches soon–in Stratford, London, and beyond. I’ll have my 250 copies in tow! Stay tuned for dates. The book will be available at other outlets in the coming weeks. FriesenPress has the monopoly for now.

Keep your joy.

Posted every Sunday, unless it’s a holiday or summertime.

Contentment is for Cows: Short and sweet reflections on life’s complications.