In the last month, we have moved into a new home with arched doorways, remodeling projects, lots of haphazard boxes still waiting for a purpose, and a new office--just for me.
My office is lovely. The green, high-backed chair is perfect for reading. My desk stores all my letters and random office supplies. I have pulled out some old antiques and trinkets, too: my great-uncle's wind-up chime clock, the pottery cat Randy got me, my grandfather's old cigar boxes, my Katherina from Mexico, and some of my old books.
I have a thing about old books.
Nick has gotten me quite a few that I have mentioned on the blog--a grammar book from 1896, Lord Jim from 1931, and several Graham Greene editions, including a 1929 copy of The Man Within, Graham Greene's first but lesser-known novel.
Anyway, with the boxes and books, everything is a bit scattered.
Amongst my boxes I found some things from my grandmother. She lives alone in the house she has owned for nearly sixty years, and she sends things to me and my family. I found this diary from 1943 that my grandmother sent about the time we were moving.
My grandmother would have been in her late teens when she wrote this diary. I recognize her strong, angled handwriting with its open loops but closed vowels.
I may burn all my journals....
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