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From the Homefront Diaries of Lorraine Shatterbuck (entry #5)

(Note: From the Homefront Diaries of Lorraine Shatterbuck is a fictional diary and a WIP by Frances O’Roark Dowell.)

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November 15, 1942

I thought I would write in this diary every day as a way of keeping a detailed record of our daily life to share with Jim when he comes home. But given that I write him letters every day, there’s no need to make a duplicate record here. Still, from time to time I enjoy opening these pages and writing about the things that Jim wouldn’t find of much interest–at least not in detail.

Of course, I’ve written to Jim about the quilting group that now meets at my house on Thursday mornings, though I don’t go too much into particulars, mostly because I know he’d rather I write about the children. Our quilting group–Phyllis says “bee” is much too old-fashioned, though I rather like it–is small so far, just six of us, though two of the girls say they know of others who might like to join. I say the more the merrier! After all, the point of the group is to meet other women whose husbands are fighting in the war. And of course to make quilts, but sometimes that seems like a secondary pursuit and the real reason we’ve gathered is to talk and talk and talk.

After the first meeting of our quilting society was over, Phyllis stayed to help finish cleaning up–and to gossip. I had to laugh when Phyl pointed out that our new friends resembled nothing more than the cast of characters from Little Women. It’s so true! First, we have Betty Spinner, who’s sensible, pretty and a bit of a social striver, though too nice to actually get very far up the high society ladder. She arrived at the first meeting with her friend, Willamina “Billie” Paulette, who she fussed at the entire time. Billie–imagine Jo March after she cut her hair for cash–has a broad, friendly face, wears trousers without fail, snaps her gum, and yells “Damn!” whenever she makes a mistake. Each and every time, Betty seems absolutely shocked, although the two of them have been friends since high school. “Billie! Betty exclaims when Billie curses. “Language!”

Louise Mendelsohn is a friend of Phyl’s; they both attend Beth Israel. Louise is most certainly our Beth. Quiet as a mouse, but absolutely delighted by Billie’s antics. According to Phyllis, she’s also an accomplished pianist, but when I asked her if she would play for us last week, she blushed all the way to her hairline and gave a violent shake of her head, as though the suggestion she might play was absolutely out of the question.

Finally, there’s Gracie Obenchain, whose real name is Gretchen. She changed it to Gracie when Hitler invaded Paris. She is an accomplished artist and a very talented quiltmaker from what I’ve seen. She’s also quite pretty and has yet to pass the mirror in the foyer without getting a glimpse of her reflection and smiling at herself. For all of her vanity, she’s truly charming. Her husband, according to Phyllis, is wealthy and could have easily avoided serving. But he signed up to do his duty and has been overseas for a year now. Gracie’s has a two-year-old who her mother watches so she can come to our little group on Thursdays.

We have met two times now and have had wonderful, lively conversations. Not much quilting has taken place, but we all agreed last week that we will get serious about quilting at our next meeting. We are discussing making quilts to give away, though to whom–well, we haven’t decided that yet.

Time to put the potatoes on for dinner. Why does it always feel like it’s time to put the potatoes on? I guess because it always is!

 

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From the Homefront Diaries of Lorraine Shatterbuck (entry #4)

(Note: From the Homefront Diaries of Lorraine Shatterbuck is a fictional diary and a WIP by Frances O’Roark Dowell.)

 

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October 27, 1942

I write to Jim every day, and I try to keep my letters cheerful. But in this morning’s letter, I had to break the news that Ann sprained her wrist at school yesterday–she was swinging during recess and that horrible Dillie Glover dared her to jump off. It’s not a serious sprain, but Ann is so dramatic that you’d think she’d broken both arms and a leg to boot!

Today Ann and Bobby came home from school excited to make Halloween plans. There will be a party for the children at the elementary school on Saturday night, beginning with a parade through the hallways and then festivities in the gymnasium–apple-bobbing, pin-the-tail on the witch’s cat, that sort of thing.

I remember going to school at night as a child for recitals or plays–the strange, spooky feelings it evoked. How different it was from the school I attended during daylight hours! The lights cast strange shadows everywhere, and footsteps echoed loudly down the hall. Even seeing my teachers at night struck a disorienting chord. They always dressed up for these events, and the younger teachers seemed impossibly beautiful to me. Like princesses.

Bobby wants to dress up as a tramp for Halloween, which is easy enough. He can wear Jim’s old coat that I never got around to mending and Jim’s gardening trousers belted with a piece of rope. I’ll blacken a bit of cork to give him the semblance of a beard, and bob’s your uncle, he’s good to go!

Ann, of course, has more complicated plans. She wants to be the evil queen from the movie “Snow White,” a movie I might add she’s never seen. It’s played at the Bijou downtown several times since it first came out, most recently last year, when Ann was seven. Having seen it myself, I felt like Ann would find parts of it too frightening (especially the Evil Queen!). Still, she managed to get a hold of the Walt Disney Snow White storybook, which is illustrated with stills from the movie, so she knows exactly how her costume should look.

I’ve told her she should have come up with this marvelous idea earlier. She claims that she did, but we were–quote– “all wrapped up in Daddy’s going to camp” and she didn’t think she ought to mention it.

It’s a terrible thing to have an intelligent child, especially one so young.

In any event, I’ve got three days to put an Evil Queen costume together, one that looks exactly like the one in the movie that Ann has never seen! Phyllis is going to come over tomorrow morning to help. While she can barely sew a skirt to save her life, she can draw, and she’s going to help me sketch a design for a simple black cape with purple lining. Moreover, she claims to be an expert when it comes to making crowns. How wonderful to have an artist for a friend! Maybe she’ll have an idea for the sort of sling an Evil Queen with a sprained wrist would wear.

I’m hard at work on my second “Flying Clouds” block. Mother showed me some helpful shortcuts for putting together the smaller pieces that make up the larger block. It’s very scrappy looking, but I don’t mind. Besides, it fits in with the times. Which reminds me, I must go and gather things for next week’s scrap drive. If I leave it to Bobby, he’ll load up all of my pots and pans on his wagon and I’ll never see them again!

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From the Homefront Diaries of Lorraine Shatterbuck (entry #3)

(Note: From the Homefront Diaries of Lorraine Shatterbuck is a fictional diary and a WIP by Frances O’Roark Dowell.)

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October 22, 1942

Phyllis stopped by yesterday with some gingerbread and her copy of Elliot Paul’s The Last Time I Saw Paris, which she loved and is dying for me to read. It’s all about the time the author spent in Paris after the first world war ended and before the second world war began (doesn’t “world war” sound awful? It’s frightening to contemplate). According to Phyll, The Last Time I Saw Paris  is an in-depth look at all the different people who lived on Paul’s street, and when I’m done reading it I’ll be desperate to move to France. “Maybe after the war is over,” I told her. “Nazi-occupied Paris doesn’t sound like much fun.” “After the war!” Phyll declared, fist raised. It’s her latest motto. She’s going to do all sorts of wonderful things after the war is over and Ralph gets back and her children grow up and leave home and she can send her horrible dog to live on her brother’s farm … on and on.

I’m happy to report that Phyll is quite taken by the notion of making quilts. She’s always hated sewing dresses, and as a result is terrible at it, but the artist in her is intrigued by quilt-making. She thinks we should make a quilting society and invite other women whose husbands are fighting overseas to join us. I don’t know. I’m not lacking for a social life. It’s solitary pursuits and quiet that I’m in need of! But as Phyll points out, my living room is the size of a football field, and though she’s exaggerating, it is large as living rooms go. I’ve heard that the family that built the house loved having dance parties, and while a ball room would be ridiculous in a house like this, a spacious living room didn’t seem out of place. People thought Jim and I were crazy for buying such a big house, but it was priced to sell, and Jim said if we didn’t fill it up with children, we’d turn around and sell it when the market was better. Well, fill it up with children we did, and now I couldn’t be happier for all the space we have. I feel a bit spoiled, especially when I think of Mother raising six children in a three-bedroom bungalow!

Phyll has a long list of women she wants to ask to join us in our quilt-making, all of whom live within a three-block radius. Sometimes it seems like every able man in Milton Falls enlisted after Pearl Harbor. I feel sorry for the ones who were turned away because of infirmity. When Bob Calhoun and Marty Webb came over last week to say goodbye to Jim, they went into great detail about how they’d been the first ones in line at the recruitment office on December 8. Bob got turned away because he’s terribly nearsighted and Marty has a heart murmur. But they both work hard as air wardens and running scrap drives, not to mention that they help all the families whose husbands and fathers are off at war. I imagine when Christmas comes, they’ll be stringing lights on trees up and down Orange Street and beyond.

Oh, dear–it’s almost time to get Janet. Will is still sound asleep and I so hate to wake a sleeping baby, but I suppose I must.

 

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