Remembering the Week of 9-11, Part IV

September 9, 2023

Continued from last post…

Reflecting on this woman, I have decided she has a psychological problem. No one could be that focused on finding some way to cheat a store, to get away with something, to save pennies. This was another b**** from that generation just before mine—born during WWII and not after it. What happened to them? Were they born in the amniotic fluid of stress? Everything N.C. said to us came across antagonistic and sharp. (Edit: incident removed.)

This all happened 48 hours after our country was attacked for the first time ever, and we were all in shock over the tragic loss of life, while here was a woman trying to cheat someone out of their money. Somehow it seems to me that our values are askew. What is important to Americans—life as usual as trained consumers.

Monday, September 17

Yesterday, a long day at work. Dogged by the feeling that there is something more important I should be doing. Is President Bushy talking literally or figuratively about going to war against the terrorism and (that lovely term) -“evil”? I know the troops began moving almost since the beginning. He has not been passively “thinking it over.” Why do wars seem to turn up when we need them the most economically?

Would love to quit the job and concentrate on the farm, but I cannot afford to unless I get a renter. Four renter interviews with no takers. Want to hold out for a woman. The job does not belong in my life. The “trinket factory” should close in a time of war. But I am remembering Vietnam years when business went on as usual. I am sure I continued to buy things then and that my personal life was affected very little. The war was, after all, somewhere else.

Could not fall asleep for a long time last night. …This morning I am trashed and awash with feelings of depression. (Edit, whole page of personal material)

Tuesday, September 18

Our leaders keep speechifying about the American people being angry and calling for vengeance. Who? Where? The talk shows (on liberal KUNC) have aired this opinion, echoed repeatedly, that this is a “war” we should think over carefully, not jump into hastily. We are sad over the tragic bombing. We want improved anti-terrorist safety measures, not vengeance against unknown attackers where we, too, might kill innocent civilians.

The very best that has come out of this is the feeling of solidarity with all other Americans. A sense that we are all in this together, that we are all one country, even if we live in a small town isolated in the mountains what has happened in New York is a part of us. This has evolved into a simply wonderful sense of unity. The flag displays are thrilling to see. Inspiring. This is the first time in my lifetime I have ever wanted to fly the flag. For me it is not the old patriotism (“my country right or wrong”). I do not, however, own a flag.

I hope…and I am worried about this…that our flag waving does not turn into a chauvinist propaganda piece, that we don’t begin to look for the enemy within…identified as all those who aren’t waving flags or crying for war. Identified as all those whose skin color is mid-eastern.

To be continued, with a wrap-up commentary

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Remembering the Week of 9-11

September 8, 2023

September 13, 2001 continued…

More talk of war on the radio. Not a single act of retaliation, but a war. J. told me that L’s daughter, who just joined the Navy to get education benefits, had a going away party within the last couple of days before this. Apparently, troops are already being sent off, although the public is unaware of this.

My thoughts are shifting to the changes in our lives which are hinted at in being a country truly at war. We are about to enter a full-fledged war and this is a very sobering thought given our world-wide capacity to destroy all life on earth. Is this the end of my life coming up? I will record what happens. It would be wonderful to produce a book of the heroic scenes and the people’s stories from this tragic week.

Terrorist — what is a terrorist? On a radio roundtable “Today’s terrorist is tomorrow’s freedom fighter.” Many leaders (Israel and Saudi Arabia) are former terrorists. How do we “fight” terrorists, how do we wage a war on terrorism? Can you put a finger on it? I heard a quote from a Russian (and then forgot the last word). He said “We learned terrorism is not a military _________(the word conveying that military actions or methods don’t work against terrorism.) From another source: “And this terrorist attack is something altogether different—no demands were made.” Quite right…

The president is still proclaiming we are going to get them. I worry constantly about our charging blindly off to war. So we are going to kill thousands of civilians to avenge this tragedy? I despise this stupid saber rattling. There is talk on the radio of people crying for vengeance…who, where? I have not heard it. Not among my circle of friends. We are sad. We are not angry.

Music—during the first day I heard background music playing throughout the news. I was greatly disturbed. What did they think this is, a Hollywood movie?

September 14, 2001 Friday

I planted a sumac today around 12:30. I enclosed this note in a glass jar, buried under the tree:

“In memory of all those who died September 11, 2001 in the attack on the World Trade Center, all those who sacrificed their lives helping others. Planted in the hope that there will be healing for the suffering of the survivors and the people of this country, and that we will learn about strength and courage and solidarity. It is my hope that we do not seek revenge and choose hatred. War is not the answer. If there is a war, we shall all surely die. Planted this day, just after noon, a Rocky Mountain sumac, whose leaves turn red even now and drop to the ground to be renewed into life each spring. In remembrance of this sad week. September 14, 2001 Cynthia Manuel, Blue Moon Farm”

Went back to work on Thursday at 2 p.m. Bouncy popular music was playing on the radio. “Why don’t you have the news on?” I asked. “We couldn’t take it any longer, we’re tired of it.” Just great, I thought. The most important days in the history of their country during their lifetime and they want it to go away like a boring tv show. I marveled at how cheerfully A. greeted us upon her arrival, but later I realized that she was throwing herself into the minutiae of organizing kiddie stickers, and making many cash register mistakes throughout the afternoon, so that I saw how transparent was her cover-up.

On the surface it seemed all the women were more concerned with the sale of our trinkets than the fact that we might soon be at war again. Business was good that day—over $1,000. Two days after the world’s worst terrorist attack. We even had the customer from Hell.

to be continued…

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Remembering the Week of 9-11

September 7, 2023

This is Cynthia, your erstwhile host here. Can it be two years ago when I last posted on my National Diary Archive website? This week I would like to post the rest of my diary entries from the week of 9-11-2001. I will only edit non-essential writing that is about friends. I may be contacted and your comments on these entries may be sent to eclecticreaderbooks@gmail.com

Previous post – the day of September 11

September 12, 2001

We are all basically helpless to change the changes in our world. What a different place from the time I was in high school, 40 years ago. My daughter lives with the understanding that one can be shot to death at school, or that international terrorism can strike, and devastating viruses are lurking from the jungles of Africa to the jungles of American cities.

I had this counter thought: a citizen in the 1600s had Indians, bears, wolves, disease, and accidents, with no hospitals nearby to fix them up again and no insurance. They didn’t get to live as long as we do either.

W. (my renter) seems depressed this morning. Couldn’t sleep. She said the enormity of the terrorists acts is overwhelming.

This was an act of war, yet everyone is stepping around that word. Why? Because we don’t know who to accuse? If we knew who, would we go to war? My cynicism here: is it because we don’t need a war (as all wars are based on business/economic need and not religious or moral causes)? It would appear to be good timing for a war, as the economy is said to be slipping.

Have heard no news this morning. The day begins pretty.

On the news, 9 a.m. — Ok. Now they have switched to calling this an act of war. Yet they still don’t know who is behind it. The fire at the Pentagon still burns! They believe 800 people may have died there.

A car with Arabic language material has been found at the Logan airport in Boston where two of the flights originated. There was a book on flying commercial airplanes.

September 13, 2001

Flight 11 – Boston, 175 – Boston, 77 – Pentagon 190 dead

New estimate of the dead: 5,000

My only access to the news has been the radio. I have seen no papers. My tv has only one channel and it was fuzzy. I saw a blurry video of the airplane hitting the World Trade Center. It looked like a Hollywood action movie, a simulation.

They just announced the airways will be reopened at 11 a.m. today. It is a sobering reflection on the unprecedented magnitude of this event that all air traffic in the U. S. has been suspended since Tuesday morning—two full days crippling our economy and our individual lives in many ways.

The heroism and courage of those involved in this terrible event have been inspiring. The human stories are beginning to emerge. There is much talk about last minute cell phone calls from people on the planes. I don’t know the details yet. I am trying to imagine what it would be like to be on one of those planes and have just enough time for one call.

10 a.m. On the radio, a commentator remarked that it took only four hours for our attackers to shut down the most powerful nation on earth.

The most interesting story: what happened on the fourth plane that seemed to have been aborted in its attempt. Cell phone conversations lead to this scene—the passengers were planning to overthrow the hijackers, knowing they had nothing to lose, that they would die anyway. I believe they succeeded in causing the plane to crash before it reached its target.

New York, Manhattan—still a surreal landscape with smoke and dust rising from the towers. A bombed out war zone.

W. mentioned it this morning—the lack of humor about this tragedy. A commentator just said he noticed the total absence of typical New York wisecracks.

to be continued

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September 11, 2001

September 12, 2021

September 11, 2021

I thought I would publicly share my diary entry for this infamous day. Another value of the diary is to record history as it is experienced personally. I never would have remembered what I did or thought on this day if I had not written about it in my journal. Later I will also share some of my thoughts from the rest of that week.

I was selling books out of my house and online at this time, working a part-time job, and managing my homestead by myself as my partner had left me the year before.

September 11, 2001
This is the most important day in the history of the United States during my lifetime. It brings an instant association with that other historic day when John F. Kennedy was shot—November 22, 1963. The biggest terrorist attack against the United States ever committed occurred today when two commercial airplanes were hijacked and flown into the twin towers of the World Trade Center in lower Manhattan, New York. A third plane was hijacked and crashed into the Pentagon. It penetrated through thick walls into at least three rings of the building. A fourth plane did not reach its mission—presumed to be Camp David—and crashed into a rural area in Amish country in Pennsylvania. These are acts of war. The unanswerable question: how did the hostile entity slip by the FBI and all of our defenses, how could such an inconceivable act be planned and carried out so easily? Who would do such a thing?

As always, numbers quoted are so often wrong in the media. Number of people in the twin towers which collapsed while firefighters rushed in to save lives? Tens of thousands dead, I imagine. Can this be understood; can the depth of the trauma, the horror of being in the vicinity of the World Trade Center, be felt? Numbers: 250 firefighters dead, 78 police, ___ dead on the four planes.

What could it be like to see the planes fly into the trade center, to see the towers collapse, to watch people jump out of windows rather than die in fires or rubble? I cannot imagine.

I went out to start chores around 6:45 a.m. Came in at 7:15. W. had been called by her boyfriend, L. She told me the news, had the radio on. The news was just breaking. I think it happened about 7 a.m. MST. (8:46 EST first plane hit, 9:03 second plane hit.) It’s odd but I recall that the goats were freaked out by something when I got to the barn (it was just about 7 exactly). Of course I thought it might be dogs, so I looked around. Told them they were being crazy goats.

I was stunned by the news. It was beginning to really sink in, with all of the implications, when I went back out to milk. At that point the government was not out-right calling it a terrorist attack, but it seemed rather obvious to everyone else. I wonder why they let us make that choice of words.

W. left for her job as a nanny. Lucky, I thought, that I didn’t have to work today. Kept the news on. It was unreal. Couldn’t be happening. The U.S. attacked! This was just a hair shy of hearing news of a nuclear bomb drop. Since the American Revolution we’ve never been attacked. Pearl Harbor wasn’t at home. Besides, that story was a distortion of the truth, as much of our history turns out to be. Throughout the day I thought of the movie “Wag the Dog,” and naturally I can’t help but wonder if any of this is Hollywood fabrication.

One of my first thoughts this morning was for the pilots. I wondered if they had been killed or made to fly the planes. It is also inconceivable that a pilot would do this. They must have known they would die no matter what. Surely they would not comply. No survivors to tell the truth. Feel what it would have been like on the planes. Stories: a woman flying to join her husband on his birthday (she skipped an earlier flight to do this) called him on her cell phone to report the plane was hijacked. Then the plane went down. A man ducked in the tiny airplane bathroom and called 911! The dispatcher said “Uh…we haven’t any reports of this hijacking.” There was another cell phone call…

I was curious why so little was said throughout the day about the Pentagon attack. I decided thy wanted to play down the fact that our Pentagon was successfully injured, the walls themselves broken down and a fire raging out of control most of the day.

President Bush could think of nothing to say all day except “we’ll get them,” while a senator (?) from Virginia told us we were strong and would survive and should all pull together, said without being sappy about it.
About 8 a.m. this morning I called L. She believed me right away. Tonight I asked her why. She said because I never call her early in the morning like that and I don’t joke. She told her class that even her sister, who lives under a rock and has no tv, had heard the big news. I always tell my friends that even though I don’t get a newspaper I will hear the “big news.” We talked again tonight. She feels for the police who died. Canceled her second or third class, couldn’t go on. I would have canceled the first one. (My sister is an ex-cop.)


Had a phone call this morning – a customer looking for a book. Just don’t understand how anyone wouldn’t grasp the importance of this day, the seriousness. How could you go shopping? Why didn’t all business close? N.T. said “no one is going to close me down.” It is not an “I’ll show them,” but a sign of respect for the tragedy that should make the choice.

M. called me while I was talking to B. this morning. B. was his usual flip self, happy that this would stir things up, that some rebel poked us in the eye. M. sounded scared. Her co-workers at the hospital were quite upset by the tragedy. They probably shared an empathy for the medical personnel. Her reaction was a reflection of theirs.


Seems I kept in touch with friends and family by phone. Called L, B, M, L. Tried J and mom. Talked twice to each one. At one in the afternoon, when the news was repetitive, I tried to grasp at an anchor. I had been doing dishes all morning, plus little chores I could find. Kept busy, but wandering restlessly. Decided to clean 1/4 of the barn. Ugly job. Took 3 – 1/2 grungy hours. I surely stank afterwards. Long hot shower to clean and calm muscle spasms from arthritis. Cleaning the barn on this absolutely gorgeous fall-light day, the entire tragedy became unreal.


It is now 11:30 p.m. My body is sore and stiff. I will go find Annie-cat and go to bed. What will tomorrow bring? Will the ban on air travel, the closing of all airports, continue? Never before in history…


And what effects will we feel?

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A Morning Sunrise

August 26, 2021

Preface
This is an example of a beloved diary entry that evokes strong memories of yesteryear. I go back to this entry frequently. What you write in a diary can be just as powerful as a photo. So much is forgotten, but this won’t be. I will remember this morning forever.

This is a diary entry from 1972. I was nearly 25, working as a milker at the dairy at Walker Creek Ranch in California, living in a bunkhouse with other young women. I was off that day but I hitched a ride over to the dairy with the ranch crew after breakfast in the communal kitchen. These were not really mountains, but the rolling hills of coastal California.


25 September 1972
Eyes burning, night memories twisted, body sweating, I delivered myself from my bed. Hot, house on fire, whose furnace am in? Sleep wouldn’t come again with peace. These are the forms which beget nightmares—rows upon rows of beds with bodies in them. (…) Ah, dreamily I focused the blame, saw the thermostat. Well, let them roast in their own hell, I’d rather freeze. Out into the cool of night I fled from my thoughts of day. Cold air blasted my fevered face, relieving, reviving, and I fell into the star-spangled night.

After stuffing myself with pancakes that stuck going down, I climbed into the pick-up truck. We drove down the road on a path of milk dust shed by the roundest of moons, the chariot horses careened wildly from side to side as our Jehu raced the daylight. The world was lit with a surrealistic moon-glow.


Eyes still glazed from fire, I picked up the kitten and began rolling my stone up the hillside. I brought the kitten along because I was not sure what I would find on the top of such a mountain before dawn. The time was 6 a.m. The kitten started purring. Then I found the spot. How is it that we find these places we are looking for, when we have never seen them before? You always know the place when you first see it. There was a rock with lichens and we sat. We sat to watch the dawn come, freezing now, toes very stiff. Cat still purring.


The first light was creeping over the horizon of the distant mountains. I was the audience-of-one in a large amphitheater. There were several displays in a panoply of color. I rotated myself, did obeisance to the east, west, north, south, and for every revolution there was a change. The clouds went from pinks to orange, purples to grays. The last colors were red. The sun pushed a brilliance over the edge. Although I watched carefully, I missed the moment that day pushed away night. That is what is so intriguing—you never see it at all even though you think you have watched a sunrise.


About that time I became drowsy and kitten and I fell asleep, she, tucked under my sweater, and I, huddled against the rock. We slept off and on while watching the sun get brighter and brighter and then, when day had finally taken over the midnight world and the moon gave up and disappeared from sight, we walked down the mountainside together. She was purring all the way. In fact, the only sound I remember all along was the rumbling purr of the cat.


At first I had tried to make her go away. But she kept sneaking back after a brief interlude of stalking, resuming her incessant clawing and rubbing. Death did not walk these hills this morning and her birds got away. So we welcomed each others warmth and worshiped together the first rays of the sun by doing what felines do in the sun—sleeping.

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A Memory of Dad

August 22, 2021

I was poking through old diaries again and I came across this entry about a visit to my parents in Florida. My dad had a stroke in 1996 and missed his granddaughter’s college graduation, a moment he was eagerly anticipating. Fine one minute, he stepped out of the car into a different future. In one cruel sweep of fate, my dad, the perpetual student, the avid reader, the social activist, the civil rights demonstrator, was gone. He lived 6 years more and just missed knowing about 9-11, which would have destroyed his spirit.


Me? I didn’t meet Death as expected, but have lived on now for another 25 years.
Here is the entry, with minor editing. Remember that a diary is all “first draft.”

November 1996
I want to live 1997 as though it will be the last year of my life, the last chance I will ever have for anything. The older I grow the clearer it is that life is short. Death becomes more certain. I count on nothing. G. K. Chesterton said: “The way to love anything is to realize that it might be lost.”


One of the recurring themes of this visit to the sunny isle of Florida is facing old age and death. Saw the mobile home park where my parents lived when they arrived 16 years ago in 1980. I remember it when it was new and they were surrounded by friends. Death is the “disease” which has taken their friends off until there are only a few left.
Saw Orin and Jeanette—he close to death when an appendix burst . Saw Charlie, who lost Jule, and is now lost himself. Charlie, trying to clean out the mobile home and warning “watch out or your possessions will possess you.” Without Jule what is left of his life? And Orin says “I am living for today and I will tell it like it is no matter what anyone thinks about me.” Wisdom from those facing death a bit closer than I am.


November 18 Life is short. It does not seem possible that I am near the end already. You really have life about twenty years – age 20-40, with your 30s being the best years of all. Oh sure, I saw a white-haired old woman today at ECHO, who was the “wise woman” teaching herbs to the youngsters. Could it be that they didn’t know what she was teaching them? Could it be that I knew what she knew? Do I need to become this wise woman?


Life is short and this visit has been short. We have done nothing. I have mostly, simply, been with my parents. Tomorrow I leave. Where have the days gone? I came to say good-by to my father. I cannot say it. We sit across the table in silence. He fades in and out of mental acuity. Sometimes he is totally confused by the schedule of the day. The rhythmic events of the day seem to be his anchor: breakfast, shaving, lunch, dinner, news. Tonight he seemed clear when he was reading his old letters written to Mother when they were married less than a year. They had built my first home, 19457 Freeland in Detroit in 1941, and then he had gone off to war. Dad was also mentally “in gear” later on as we sat side by side on the sofa in his office and read books together. He made comments on his book and asked me to pronounce words for him. But then he said “I wonder how this good book turned up in our house?,” and I told him I brought it for him on this trip. He didn’t remember that.


With panic, I realize tomorrow is my last day with him.

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Family Archives: A World War II Letter From My Dad

November 15, 2020
11/14/20 Veterans Day has passed. My family fought in the Revolutionary War. Several were on the side of the North in the Civil War. (Lucius Chubb was part of the Iron Brigade which suffered huge losses in the first battle at Gettysburg and died of his wounds a month later.) My dad was in World War II, in the Navy, eventually on Guam. I am most proud of this letter he wrote to my mother while he was still stationed in Ames, Iowa. Their first baby was my brother Paul.
The second page is a love letter, closing with his Christmas wish list. He wrote: “If anyone else wants suggestions, I like books. Many late titles I’d like to have. I mentioned one on a card: “Towards Freedom” by Nehru and any of Lin Yutang’s works. “Dragon Seed” by Pearl S. Buck would be nice or anything you’d like to read. Really, I don’t care if I get anything. If there was a fund for feeding hungry children of Europa I’d suggest people give to it what they’d give to me. I’m rich in everything. Love, Sid

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Small Delights

August 14, 2020

If you are like me, your diary entries might read like the newspapers and other media: all the best-selling bad news, all the tragedies, all the wrongs and slights, “the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.”

So I was pleased to rediscover the joy of two small journals I began but never finished.  I think it would be uplifting to try again.  The little black book was supposed to be a gratitude journal.  It includes entries from 2004 to 2010.  I wish there were more entries because there is nothing dark or negative, only happiness.  I quit because it is awkward for me to be “grateful” when I have no god or guide to be grateful to.  Maybe a pantheist needs to simplify to a one to three sentence record of the best thing that happened that day and leave it there.

Some entries:

12-30-2004 “Drove Camel on errands and to the feed store.  He started right up and ran fine.  I loved driving the pick-up again.”

12-31-2004 “Watched the flamenco dancers at First Night.  Beautiful!”

1-13-2005 “I struggled on through with the computer and made a flyer for pet siting.  Hooray!”

4-29-2005 ” M. gave me a photo of the lamb I saved, a mug with women writers, and a book of famous last words.”

1-30-2008 “I enjoyed people’s reaction to my beret.  As always, so many people stare or smile and the men respond.  Everyone defers.  Why is this so?  Why does this hat give me so much power?”

10-18-2009 “My favorite time of the day was sitting in the swing watching the sunset, drinking a cup of coffee after four and a half hours of farm work.”

I think it is quite amazing how much can be conveyed in just a few sentences.  The reader knows a little about me already and about what is important to me, what makes me happy.

Actual diaries from the 1800s, those pocket-size books with about an inch of space for an entry, also convey a lot of information, though not so much the feelings of the diarist.  I.e. “killed three chickens today,” “planted the peas,” “visited old Mrs. Turner,” or “Sally’s baby has colic.”

The second journal in the picture, 3″ by 4″ in size with the beetle on the cover, was an attempt at haiku-like poetic thoughts.  I tried to do one every night before turning out the light.  There are no dates.

Some examples:  “Milo’s eyes twinkled when he saw me.  How flattered I am to be so loved by a cat.”

“Evie tells us: ‘My daddy is the best daddy ’cause he’s soft and cozy.'”

And: “Today I wore the sixties again

Fine in flowing orange cotton India blouse and black pants

Where did the years go?”

And:  “Blond curls. Naked butts. Romping in pool. Such beautiful edible innocence.”

And: “Cat curled on the chair.  Evie pets her, kisses her.  Annie does not run.”

And: “‘Tell you what,’ Evie says to the doll.  Smiling, I see I have been copied again.”

Each one of these short, simple entries, capturing the best moment of each day, is remarkable in the boost of happy memories it brings during today’s dark uncertain times.  It has been like going through old photo albums.  Word pictures.

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Beginning Diary #81

May 27, 2020

This is a photo of my diary collection.  My own diaries take up three and a half shelves on the left.    Had I written continuously with no breaks, this collection would be enormous.  The first one I saved was 1964.  I recently began diary #81. When I wrote my first diary I never expected it to be a lifelong passion. Never thought about that at all.

Not shown here are years of letters written to and from all members of the family.  I also keep or have kept gardening journals, trip journals, dream journals, beekeeping record books, movie record books, reading record books, and quote books.  Obviously I am fond of writing things down.  An archivist by nature.

On the right are real diaries written by other people plus published diaries (those deemed “acceptable” to print), books written about journal writing, and a stash of blank books to use in the future.  I study the art of keeping diaries, the illegitimate side of written literature.

I have collected fewer than 25 handwritten diaries.  Some are presents from my family purchased off Ebay.    Even diaries written by non-famous common ordinary people are expensive to buy.  Some of the diaries were written by my mother and great-grandmother.  A very few were donations.

My favorite one was a gift from a friend, picked up at a local auction. It is written by a button collector, but oh there is so much more in that one. She was a character and described her honest feelings about people and events, even when she did not exactly appear saintly.

I write as openly and honestly as I can about people, my feelings, events in my life, my beliefs, animals, books, movies, gardening, my bookstore, nature, phenomenon, and strange synchronicities. Generally, I do not write about politics or world events, unless they touch me personally.  Since 2016 that changed and I have poured my passionate anger into my journals.

I have continued to teach occasional journal writing workshops. If anyone is interested in joining me in the creation of an archive, contact me at The Eclectic Reader at 970-223-4019.

 

 

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Not Just for Diaries

May 7, 2020

The National Diary Archive I intend to establish will include letters.  Letters are a different sort of private writing, a more nuanced level of self-exposure.  They may not be written with the desire to reveal much, yet they often betray their creator with impunity.   Everything you write, even what you do not say, brings your character to light.   What does it say about you?  Your choice of pen, paper, even the stamp, whispers truths.

I suppose the level of honesty in one’s letters depends a great deal on who the recipient is, i.e. your father, mother, grandmother, or sister, and, of course, your relationship to that person…close or fraught with tension.

As much as re-reading my journals, I experience the voyeuristic pleasure of reading a stranger’s secrets.  Surprise! They are my own.  Some of my letters contain stories of experiences I had forgotten.  Who can remember 50 years ago?  Now a senior, I cannot reliably remember what happened last Tuesday.

What I do remember from last week is the discovery of a shoebox full of around 50 letters I wrote between 1970 and 1976.  A real treasure!   I am reading about parts of my life that have become dim in memory.   Luckily I come from a family of hoarders of ephemera, who preserved my literary outpourings.

Unless the letters stored in your attic are so banal you would hide from embarrassment, I encourage you to preserve them.  You can make them into a pseudo-diary.  Preserve them in a three-ring binder, or a notebook without harmful fasteners, or put them individually into plastic pockets and then into a binder. Your family, your descendants, may appreciate them.  If not, a total stranger of the future world.

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