I spent a good part of this dark, rainy Thursday typing Dad's 1964 diary entries into my computer. I'm halfway through June.
There isn't much to tell about the almost 3 month old me. Mostly I spend my evenings in a rocking chair with one of my parents, have already had chicken pox thanks to my older brother, and am starting to smile. Dad mostly says I'm "cute" and only once has he said I'm "being difficult." Ha ha!
My brothers are 5 1/2 and 6 1/2 years old. Mom and Dad are struggling to find help for their youngest son who is mentally handicapped. They don't have answers, but are searching for solutions. They've tried a drug to help settle him, and talked to a doctor in Niagara Falls, an osteopath, who has decided she cannot help them. He's been referred to as "emotionally disturbed," but no one knows what to do. He can not go to school and is difficult if not impossible to control, especially when the weather turns nice.
(May 20, 1964, Wed- Worked all day. Studied at noon. Have a lot of ground to cover before exams. We came to another "dead end" with Tim. Dr. Dovesmith is out. Very discouraging. Ar and I had tea and rocked our baby. Very tired.)
Mom's days, mostly unmentioned, are filled with taking care of her children and home. She's been weepy, fought sickness, and spends long days at home without Dad.
(May 28, 1964, Thurs- Sunny, cool. Worked all day till 6:00 PM. Ate at the diner, and went to school. After school I studied till 9:30 in the library. Later Ar and I had tea and held Martha. She's getting cuter and cuter. Late. Tired.)
It's not the picture of Mom and Dad that I remember, and although it doesn't surprise me, I never took the time to really think about it until the last several years. In looking at the past I see little bits and pieces of what makes me who I am. I'm understanding us in a whole new way.
20 minutes ago