February 11, 1965

Up in 1965, down in 1997. C'est la vie.

February 11, 1965

Mom let me cut my hair into front bangs tonight. I've been after her to let me since 8th grade. It looks neat! I'm so glad! It turns out that Ringo Starr got married, not Paul McCartney. He's 24 and Maureen Cox, the girl he married, is 18 years old. By the way, you unbelievers of the future, I happen to like the Beatles very much. Grandma had Rudolf Valentino, Mom had Nelson Eddy, Aunt Rosie had Frank Sinatra and I've got the Beatles!

February 11, 1997

The grit in the oyster. I feel it very, very much. Life will improve, under my power and efforts. I will the light. Let there be light.

February 11, 2023

I certainly got a little creative there. Mom was indeed a huge fan of Nelson Eddy; next to the Sousa marches to wake us up for chores on Saturday morning, her favorite recording was “Indian Love Call”, from Rose Marie. As for the other, I made them up. It is unlikely that my very pious, very busy preacher’s wife grandmother ever saw a Rudolf Valentino movie. (My thrice married, free -spirited other grandma might have, between relationships, but I was clearly imagining my mother’s side of the family.) My Aunt Rosemary, the youngest of Mom’s six sisters, was the right age for Sinatra, but I hadn’t seen her since I was four, and we hadn’t discussed crushes at the time.

And bangs. As I mentioned on January 16, I fought an ongoing battle with my hair until finally realizing that it would do what it was created to do. Sometimes wavy, sometimes curvy (but only in places), sometimes sticking straight out from my head (but only in places). Sometimes, if the weather was right, all of the above, with a frisson of frizz. My bangs usually flipped out and up, away from my forehead. I tried it all: cellophane tape, Dippety-Do, bobby pins and hair clips. All I got was half an hour of perfect bangs, and then - BOING!

The alternative to bangs is my big ol’ forehead. I choose unruly bangs. Sometimes I even get to be the one with a little curl somewhere on my forehead.

The entry from this day in 1997 caught me up short. I wasn’t sure whether or not to include it. 1997 was a tough year. Actually, the 90s were a tough decade. My department was eliminated in 1992. My father died in 1994. Jim’s employer went bankrupt and closed in 1995, beginning several months of unemployment and financial worries. His mother died in 1996. Our daughter was struggling in school and I felt like the worst mother and the stupidest educator in the world, unable to help her.

Later that year, I bought myself a copy of Sarah Ban Breathnach’s Simple abundance : a daybook of comfort and joy, and on January 1, 1997, I resumed my daily journaling habit in an effort to find some kind of sanity, if not peace, in my crazy life. It did help, to the point that when we moved three years ago, I got rid of it. So I can’t completely recall her reading for today. Something about oysters, grit, and pearls, evidently. I wanted to believe that I could will things to improve. All I know for certain is that they eventually did, with or without my help.