Spitz

Parents of only children, take heed. We had a family treasure, Mother's incredibly unsystematic journal. We called it Spitz, and Spitz was THE item to be rescued should our apartment erupt into flames. I have no idea where the name came from, but I urge one of you to begin a similar journal of your own. Call it what you will: Dachshund, Coyote, Floribunda, even Whatever. The odder the name, the closer your attachment will be. In this journal, the parent doing the writing will record everything he or she wants to remember accurately. If I were the parent of an only child, I'd do exactly what my mother did because I know how extremely grateful my child would be. First, the journal would be for me, not for my husband or for my child. Still, because my husband and child would be important to me, many of my entries would be about them, so the book would be theirs, too. I'd make no attempt to be systematic, but I would keep an index just as my mother did. I'd begin the index on December 31 (I'd use an accountant's journal because it provided a fair amount of space, or my computer because I could file stuff away easily.) and work backwards. "Vaccinations - April 22 .......No. of Dresses the Petit Pain had when she cut up the dotted Swiss - July 16" The entries I'd write randomly. Anywhere. Important, parents! If I had six children, I'd still keep my journal, but I'd need one book, not six. The journal, remember, would be for me, not for my six children. Mother's time was limited. She taught. She wrote her last entry when I was twenty. In 7,300 days she had written 365 pages. If I filled those 365 pages in 9,650 days, would I have felt pressured, vaguely inadequate? No. Remember, that journal would be for me. It would be mine. Mine.



I think I'll call it "Esmerelda."



My mother kept Spitz, but my father was our family's correspondent. He was the one who wrote to Mother's siblings. When he was out of town on a case, even for a few days, he'd write wonderfully quirky letters to Mother and me. I did a lot of galavanting about as a child. When I was away, my father always wrote, keeping me in touch with home.