The gravity of this journal being 78 years old wasn’t lost on me.
We didn’t know that it existed until she was gone – my older brother discovered it when going through our late Big Mama’s effects, telling me in no uncertain terms:
“Bro I’m setting this aside this for you, you’ll know what to do with it.”
The pages in the book lent contrast to the stories that my Grandmother regaled us with over the years.
I touched every page wondering when the spirit of trepidation finally understood that warring with this woman would be an exercise in futility – because her knees would never bend…
The 20 something year old version of my Grandmother didn’t have it all figured out, but she didn’t allow the unknown to deter her. Her recollection of the journey that lead her from the restrictive confines of the Jim Crow South to Chicago in the waning days of World War II – never lost its power, regardless of how many times she told it.
My Grandfather was drafted into the Army during the War – she made a entry about that as well. She recalled that he hated his time in the service – and when he was honorably discharged. He didn’t hesitate to rid himself of his military garb at the first opportunity that he got, much to her dismay.
To be continued…
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