Standing Tall
Gaining her sea legs in seventh grade.
mOST KIDS START kindergarten at 5. However, I started at
4, thanks to Dr. Wolfe telling Mama, “Send her now, she’s tall.” As a lean-limbed 11-year-old in seventh grade, I had oodles of little girl words to spill into my dear diary that school year (1961-’62).
Since my birthday was in December, a new diary for the coming year was the perfect present. I wanted it to have an air of sophistication, so I went for the soft vinyl cover in feminine colors. My favorite was aqua with a drawing of a teenage girl with a ponytail, talking on the phone. Puffy pink hearts floated above her, and I envisioned her having lots to write about.
On the first page, I decorated my signature with pizazz. I pasted my school picture on the inside cover, and added a list of my favorites—teacher, singer, record, magazine and movie.
Most diaries came with a flimsy lock, and two equally flimsy golden keys.
The lock warned “No peeking! Personal! Stay Out!” I squirreled my book away in the headboard of my bed, which had a shelf with a secret compartment.
My diary was a Nosy Parker’s paradise. And I often had an inkling that someone was snooping. Someone knew “Hugh asked Donna to slow-dance, not me.” Daddy was too busy working to be a buttinsky. That left one person.
Mama.
To trick her, I’d write “Mama sure is crabby today!” or even “Mama likes to be nosy.” If she gave me the cold shoulder after that, I had my answer. Knowing her habit of sneaking a peek at my diary kept me from writing any ultra juicy secrets involving boy situations.
Reading my old diary sometimes makes me cringe, but I also feel sympathy. I want to hug this poor long-legged skinny kid who was trying to muddle through the angst of seventh grade. Sept. 6: “When I changed for gym, Glenna saw my undershirt and laughed and said real loud, ‘You don’t wear a bra, yet?!’ Mama HAS to buy me a bra before my next gym class!”
Oct. 3: “I want to get braces. My vampire teeth bug me.”
At least learning to cook at Ross Junior High School was fun. Nov. 8: “We broiled cinnamon toast in Home Ec.”
My most frequent entry: “I got a dime cone dipped at Dairy Queen after school.”
Our diaries were dear to us, and we took them seriously. Once after school, I was checking out the newest display of diaries at Woolworths when I overheard a cheeky little miss tell her brother,
“Now, these are not for boys, only girls. They’re diarrheas.”
My diary helped get me through a confusing year. Oh, and thankfully, I did get braces.