This house is full of old paper journals. I write behind dragons, Dr. Who and bilingual workshops. My organizational scheme unravels often and I only vaguely know what kind of information falls behind which cover. My mother wrote on her calendars, a clever plan that somehow I never picked up. Calendars make dating unnecessary while limiting entry size. If journaling sounds like too much work, those little date boxes should make the task less intimidating. I recommend calendar journals to readers who are thinking they don’t have time to record daily events in their already busy schedules.
I suspect I skipped calendar journals because I always have more to say than a 1 or 1.5 inch box allows, but I appreciate reading what my mom wrote. “Sherry and Steve went ice skating today. We stopped for ice cream. Virg to Kiwanis. Talked to Patsy.” These entries are barest bones, but my brother and I can use them to go back in time. I see my dad in the brown Kiwanis suit with his starched white shirt and tie. I see my mom in one of many long conversations with her sister, sitting on the built-in, beige bench in front of the large front window of the Tacoma house, holding our black, rotary phone. I remember the sights and smells of the old ice rink, the battered, heavy white rental skates.
Calendar journals may be an easy place for some people to start.
