Dear Diary…

My mother gave me this five-year diary, my first, for Christmas when I was in eighth grade. I think I’ve blogged it before. She wrote a note that says, “To Becky, On Christmas: Don’t ever do anything that you would be ashamed to write in this book—and have me read. Mother.” Ha, and she did read it all the time, even though I tried to hide it in my room.

Because of her ferreting skills, I wrote in code a lot, and I’ve only reread bits and pieces. I was boy-crazy, my mother drove me crazy, my father was deployed in Korea, my sister got married, and I loved music. I wrote consistently for a while the first year, skipped a year, and wrote a little bit in it again the third year, and that third-year stuff is one pissed-off teenager. That’s when my parents made me change schools, and I was miserable.

I enjoy seeing the things I put in the back of this diary, including friends’ phone numbers. I couldn’t provide the phone numbers of anyone in my life today, thanks to the way we use names, not numbers, to call cell phone contacts. But from junior high—Lynne’s, Teresa’s, Tim’s, Riley’s, my own—I can still rattle off those numbers like I was calling them all just yesterday.

Fun fact: Since I can’t remember current-day phone numbers, Tom’s going to have a disk engraved with his phone number to add to the bracelet I always wear (it has my Medic Alert info). If I lock my keys and phone in the car, I’ll know what number to call using someone else’s phone.