The Diary of Mattie Spenser - By Sandra Dallas Page 0,2

my parlor table. I could always throw it out later. So I thanked Hazel, and I slid the flap out of the safety pin to open the book. I turned it to the late-afternoon light coming through the hayloft door and examined the rich paper on the inside cover. It had been creamy once but was now a warm tan, speckled with as many brown age spots as Hazel’s hands.

“Mattie Fay McCauley Spenser.” I read the name written in big flourishes on the paper.

“That would be my grandmother. Is it her Testament?”

“No,” I said, turning the pages. “This is handwritten. It must be a journal. You ought to keep it, Hazel. It’s family history.”

I handed the book to Hazel, who held it up close to her eyes. “Well, so what if it is? I’m the last of the family, and someone else will just have to throw it out when I die. Besides, I can’t read a word of it. What’s in pencil is smudged, and the ink entries are faded. Look how small the writing is, and it’s crosshatched, too.”

When I didn’t understand what she meant, Hazel held out the open diary to me. “See, she wrote on the page the usual way. Then she turned the book sideways and wrote across the original writing. People did that back then so they could double the number of words they put on a page. Imagine being that hard up for paper.” Hazel closed the book and held it out. “Why don’t you go through it. With your interest in history, you might find it amusing. It must be grandmother’s overland journal. She came west in a covered wagon right after she was married. If the diary turns out to be any good, you can always give it to the library.”

I shrugged. “If you don’t care about my snooping into your family’s past, why should I?” I said, putting the diary into the pocket of my gardening smock. Then I scooped up the pile of trash and followed Hazel down the steps.

“Now, dearie, you don’t have to read it if you don’t want to. Give it to me and I’ll just toss it into the Dumpster,” Hazel teased, knowing I was hooked.

I patted my pocket and said, “You don’t fool me. Damn it, Hazel, I’m going to miss you when you leave. We’ve been neighbors for thirty years. Why do I have to replace you with someone who likes purple brick?”

Hazel looked up, startled, and I thought I saw dampness in her eyes before she turned away. I tossed the trash into the alley, then saw Hazel safely inside her house before going back to my side of the fence. I was no longer interested in gardening. The journal had taken care of that. Not that I minded. It was nice to have a reason to sit in the shade with a glass of wine, instead of working in the hot sun. I went to the kitchen for the wine, but before I took down the glass, I opened the book and read the tiny writing on the first page, turning the journal to catch what Hazel’d called the “crosshatching.” As I did so, I looked up and caught sight of Hazel through her kitchen window, which faces mine. I made a mental note to buy a curtain so I wouldn’t have to stare into a fifty-thousand-dollar kitchen.

I love feminist history, have read a number of women pioneers’ journals, in fact, and know that they fall into two categories. Most were for public consumption. They were lengthy letters written on the trail, then sent to the folks back home to be read aloud to friends and neighbors. Parts of them were even printed in the local newspapers. Rarer were the journals women kept for their eyes only. Having no women friends with whom they could confide during the hazardous overland trip, women used their journals as confidantes, recording private thoughts they never expected anyone else to read. Flipping through the pages of Hazel’s journal, catching words such as parturition and marriage bed, I was sure her diary fit into the second category.

I turned on the light over the sink and read on, slowly deciphering the entries word by word. I poured the wine and picked up the glass, then started for the patio. Then I changed my mind and went into the guest room that serves as my office and computer room.

Reading the journal would be slow going, so I might