January 8, 1975 Wednesday
A million things to do today after working Monday and Tuesday. Laundry, bills, banking, vacuuming, housework, and letter writing. Found Teddy, the hamster, who’d escaped the night before. His eyes were all stuck with mucous—washed them with boric acid and one is clear now. Must attend to him again. Talked astrology on the phone this morning with E.
Raining at present with periods of wet snow that blanket the air in shifting patterns. The alders at the edge of the clearing across the street are gray and ghostly. Oh, hurry, hurry, hurry. Too much to do and too little time.
4p.m. It’s snowing for real. Rumor has it that we’ll have between 4 and 6 inches tonight. If it does, will want to take Nush to walk in the woods.
Up much too late for a school night. Am just out of the shower and with a wet head to dry yet.
Finished reading a book Kinds of Love and was thinking, as I bathed, about the cry of the young city boy—one of the “new generation” who repeated–”I just want to be, to live. Exploring this a little further, it occurred to me that being is linked to doing. Life demands it. Equally necessary are the twins of patience and meditation. Through them, one’s actions and experience are digested and assimilated. Life is a composite, I think. Maybe that’s one of its “secrets.” The realization that existence is a series of phases.

January 9, 1975 Thursday
Snowing. Very little accumulation during the night so the kids went to school though buses were an hour late. It’s 32 degree exactly. The mud flat where the woods used to be is frosted white. There are pockets of snow on rocks and shelves of earth. Chimney smoke from the house on the hill is trailing off in a big plume to the southwest. I teeter on the edge of trance mesmerized by the sweep of falling snow. Sleepy too as I didn’t sack out until 1:30 a.m. and then Pickwick clawed on the bedroom door, waking me at 5. Staggered downstairs with threats and curses to put him out, jammed my sore thumb in the dark—then back up at 7 to find school would be an hour late.
Now have more letters to write and more books from the library to read. Biographies that look fascinating.
As I go through these days, I think and think, wondering, probing, and examining life and events. Things flash into my mind that I want to put into this journal, but the moment passes and the recollection seems too lengthy, and so it vanishes into the recesses of memory, perhaps never to be consciously recovered.
Evening of the 9th
Well, Judge Surica let Dean, McGruder and Kalmbach, Nixon’s personal lawyer, out of prison—wonder what he’ll hand out to Mitchell, Haldeman, and the others. A strange coil this Watergate mess. Guilty, convicted, pardoned. No wonder Justice wears a blindfold.

Published in: on December 2, 2018 at 2:38 pm  Comments (2)  

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2 CommentsLeave a comment

  1. You have such a way with words and thought. Your ideas of life were so deep and knowledgeable. I would have loved to know and talk with you back then as much as we talk today.

  2. When true friends meet, even across the miles and the years, there is no impediment to their converse. Thank you for being my friend.

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