At the nursing home where my Grandma died, she took a writing class, and my mom brought her journal home with her yesterday. I am just loving reading the entries (though her handwriting is ridiculously hard to read). I thought I'd share one of the more charming entries here (written, I believe just a few weeks before she turned 95), as it really resonated with me.
I relate to so much of what Grandma wrote here. I too am a terrible housekeeper, and I love the brilliance at the end. As my mom just said to me, "you got her genes."
I was not a good housekeeper. I was a good cook and a good baker. But I wasn't a good housekeeper. I remember one day I was exiting the subway at Radio City. A young lady passed me - looked at me, continued on a bit - and returned to ask me if I were Estelle Matlin's sister. Which I was. How did she recognize me? Of all the 8 million in NY.
She told me that a number of years ago, she with my sister came to visit me. That day I had decided to clean closets. Closets - not one - but closets. They found me - buried with all I had pulled out. She said she had never forgotten the look on my face. Too tired to organize but what was I do do with all that I had dumped in the hallway - and it was time to bathe and feed the kids.
I don't understand how I was so disciplined as an administrator and so disorganized as a housekeeper. For my mental health it was a good thing that I decided that I had to go back to work.