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♫

November 12, 1948

Dear Journal,

Harvest came and went. Our farm continues to grow stronger and better crops every year. It is amazing the amount of money we have in the bank. We may be the most successful farmers in Brindleton Bay. I would like to use some of that money to redesign the house once I turn eighteen and take over the financials. Shirley turned eleven this year, she is growing into such a creative and lovely child. You should hear the stories she weaves sitting down by the fire at night. If she had been born a man, she could write stories for the radio shows. The Daugherty’s have been struggling a bit. Hank and Dottie have been coming over for dinners so that they are less of a burden on their father. Hank and I took this harvest off from school so that he could help me get everything in before the first frost. I made sure he was paid handsomely for his time. Mr. and Mrs. Daugherty were really happy with the extra added income. I would like it if Hank continues to work for us even after we finish school. I ask mother why I need to go. What is the point in learning arithmetic and literature when all I am going to do is work on the farm with my life? She says that I never know what life holds and that I need an education. Talking that way, I was half concerned she would send me away to college. But school has never been for me. It is in the fields that I feel at home. I was born to be a farmer, and maybe I will grow our land even more. I do not see the point in keeping the swimming hole and the old barn that we only use for storage. Why not take them both out and put more plants there? Mother and grandmother both say that our fields are enough though. That we would need even more hands for all of that, and we are so content with what we have, why grow more?

I get scared at night though journal. I am haunted by these dreams of another war coming to claim my life as it did for my father and uncle before me. I want to live this life and I am terrified of dying young like they did. Mother says that father got to live thirty one years and that is more than his sisters, and she is sure he is grateful for the years he got on this earth, but, I do not understand that. Why would he be grateful that he did not get to see us grow up? Mother says he is looking down on us from Heaven, but that does not make any sense. When a plant dies, it is just dead. It is an organic material that returns to the earth, and so are we humans. When we die there would not be an ever after. That makes no sense. I believe it is just wishful thinking on her part. And she continues living her life. I think she is going to marry and leave us. I hope she understands that this is my farm and I will be staying here. 

I lost track of my thoughts though. At night these dreams torment me, in order to shut my brain off before bed, I have started drinking a whole bottle of whiskey before bed. But then I wake up with my hands shaking, and I must sneak a few sips out of the next bottle before I head off to school. It seems to be working so far journal.

Dear Journal,

Today Aunt Alice got married. They have been engaged since she turned eighteen, but he has been building a home for them on property given to him by his parents. Well today was the day and she moved out. The house feels so empty. It’s only grandma, mom, and me. Uncle Arthur and dad are still away in the war. I hope they come home soon. It’s too quiet here. Everyone is so serious. Everyone is always so focused on working in the fields. With only grandma and mom to work in the fields, there’s never any warms meals anymore. 

♫

April 13, 1949

Dear Journal,

Well my mother is off. She married Mr. Laughery and moved to the other side of town. Fortunately, there was no fuss over Shirley or I leaving with her. She knew our place was here at the farm with grandma. This spring I turned seventeen journal. Only one more year and I will marry Dottie. I proposed to her on her birthday this year. She knew it was coming, of course. She is my soulmate and we both knew longa ago that we would spend our lives together. I really look forward to the day that she can move into my home with me journal.

She was wearing the same dress every day, she said she couldn’t afford new ones. So I bought her some new stylish dress patterns and material and brought them over to her house. You know what her mother did journal? She threw those dresses Dottie made right out the window. She said no daughter of hers will dress like that. She thinks the new styles are too revealing and too much of a waste of fabric, with their full skirts. I carried those dresses home and they will be waiting for Dottie here. Maybe I will even buy her some new dresses for once she is my wife.

You see journal, I just love her so. She chases away the sadness from my body. That deep sadness that takes hold sometimes. You know what I mean. those morbid thoughts of death that chase after me with their long tendrils of despair. Taht is what I run from oh journal. 

Sometimes Dottie isn’t enough. And most days Dottie is not even at school. Without her wide smile, my only friend is in the bottle. For that is where I find relief from these thoughts. 

♫

March 7, 1947

Dearest Journal,

Dottie brings me so much joy. I cannot believe my luck to have found a girl like her. God was doing something right when he brought the Daugherty family to Brindleton Bay. Only three more years and we will be adults and I can make her my wife. Tonight brought me tears of happiness as I walked to her house in town, picking her a bouquet on the way. We walked around town, kissing on the docks, running into the bar for some warmth as we had secret kisses. All the old men cheering us on as we dared each other to take more and more shots of whiskey. As the sun came up, she climbed the trellis and snuck into her bedroom. Henry had left the window unlocked for her. Fortunately her aprents sleep on the ground floor, and then all the kids in the loft. It’s a small loft for how many children her family have. Her and Henry are the oldest, and then there seems to come a new one every year. 

She says it is bleak and cold in their house. They do not have heating ducts the way we do. Just one fireplace to heat the whole home. She says she can never get any peace from the constant shouting and responsibilty. I wonder what her mother will do in three years once Dottie comes to live with me. Her mother works as  a washer woman up at the old Bly Manor and doesn’t come home until dark. Her father works here too, as a hired hand in their fields. 

Dottie tells me she dreams of the days ahead for us. And honestly journal, I dream of them too. I wonder what life will be like married to her. I feel that we could be unspeakably happy.

♫

November 3, 1946

Dear Journal,

As my fourteenth year passes by, I continue to be filled with the dread of what happened to father and Uncle Arthur. I cannot help but find myself trapped in my memories of my childhood days, playing in the fields with Uncle Arthur, or to remember sitting by the fire between my fathers legs. War brings death, but why did this second world war have to bring as much death as it did to my family? Uncle Arthur was only seventeen when he was called to Heaven. Father had so much left of life. It is sad to see that Shirley barely even remembers them. She remembers a man with blonde hair, but that is about it. She remembers nothing of his character, nothing of his deep laughter. Every time I take a drink, I do it remembrance of them. I sip at the whiskey, thinking of my father stirring the whiskey in his own glass. Mother does not realize I drink as much as I do. Sure a fourteen year old isn’t meant to drink the way that I do, but I see nothing wrong with it. The only time I am relaxed is after having a few. That is when the peace fills me and I can begin to think of the future. Oh journal, what does my future hold? Will another war break out and cut short my life as it has to my family? Or will I grow and have this house to myself one day? Will Dottie and I have children of our own? Or will death claim me before those dreams can be realized?

♫

February 14, 1946

Dear Journal, 

Today I write down these words that I cannot believe are the truth. For dearest journal, today on St. Valentines Day, I, John Robert Nichols, kissed Dorothy Ann Daugherty. And she kissed me back! I am so delighted journal. She says she has loved me ever since she first moved here to Brindleton Bay. I’m so shocked journal. She has loved me for just as long as I have loved her! Oh I am just so full of joy today journal.

♫

January 5, 1946

Dear Journal,

Well the war ended, finally. After it had taken everything from us. Everyone says life can return to normal now, but how is life supposed to be normal when everything is different? Dad is gone, and he is never coming home. 

I went out to the bar in town with Hank and Dottie the other night. I don’t even know when they left, but before I knew it, everyone was gone and I had to walk all the way home as the sun rose, and then go to school after. 

Mom didn’t even notice. She never does notice anything these days. She’s too busy batting her eyelashes and baking pies for Mr. Laughery. She says they’re just friends but I can see the way he looks at her. How can she think about another man so soon? Dad has only been dead for two years. She should be like grandma, content to be alone until her time is done as well. 

Grandma says that everyone processes grief different and that mom just wants to forget about her pain, so she focuses on having fun, but why can’t I forget my pain?

At least there is one time that I can forget and I can think of other things. Once I’ve had three drinks, the edges begin to fade and I can start to think about my life. Dottie seems to worry, but Hank is more than happy to drink with me.