Tuesday, January 13, 1959
So many people I know have already died. You just never know who will die next. I know this now, though, you don't need to hear an owl hoot before someone dies. People die anyway. And Diary, I've thought and thought about what I said to you last night, about what is the reason to be alive at all if we're just going to die? Then I remembered a question from our catechism. The question is, "Why did God make you?" And the answer is, "God made me to love, honor, and serve him in this world, and to be happy with him in the next." I think I understand that, Diary—I will love, honor, and serve God in this world because I do want to be happy with him in Heaven. But for me (or anyone) to be happy with God in Heaven, we have to die to get there.


Thursday, February 19, 1959
Grandpa wanted to know if Jody and I would like to ride to the Bottom with him to look at the cows. We did. So off we went, and Grandpa was acting silly, shouting “BOOM-TUR-RAT-TUM!” all along the way, even though he usually just does that right before we fly over the levee. Then when we did get close to the levee, Grandpa said, "Ok, Skiss and Jode, get ready to fly!” I didn't want for Grandpa to do that because it makes me so scared I almost cry. But he started driving really fast, and shot up the levee, off the ground, and into the air, just like we really were flying. Then we landed on the other side of the levee real hard. Grandpa was laughing, and Jody was laughing. But not me. My heart was pounding so hard and I couldn't breathe. I can't tell Grandpa not to do that because he's a grownup and I'm just a kid. Grownups always say that children should be seen and not heard. So I guess I just can't go to the Bottom anymore with Grandpa.


Tuesday, April 14, 1959
After school today Spotty and I roamed. It will be the last time we do that here, because tomorrow we're leaving this place and moving to our new one. We went to all our favorite spots, especially the timber. Spotty scared up a rabbit and took off chasing it. So I went to the barn by myself. I played with the barn cats for a while and said goodbye to them. Then I climbed up to my lookout spot. As far as I could see everything looked so pretty. I looked at each thing and said to myself, "I will remember this forever." I've done that since I was nine, when we went to Yellowstone Park and the Black Hills. And I really do remember—even trees and branches, dirt and water, grass and pine needles. All kinds of things, little or big. They stay in my mind like pictures taken with a Brownie camera.


Saturday, October 10, 1959 p.
I was peeling apples with Mama today, and she started talking about Uncle Joe and Rainey. She said that Uncle Joe is worried about his kids because Rainey has been leaving them to shift for themselves while she runs around; the kids are simply being neglected. Then I said, "That's what people probably would have thought about us kids, too, isn't it?" Mama gave me a look I never saw before and said, "Well, now! Just what do you mean by that crack?" She was really frowning! So I tried to explain, "You know—when us kids were here and you were gone to Omaha for ten days?" Mama threw her paring knife down hard into the pan of apples and water, and got up off her chair. "WHY ON EARTH WOULD YOU SAY SUCH A TERRIBLE THING?" she yelled. She looked as mad as that day in the Hill pasture when she said she'd been calling and calling me and I didn't answer. I thought sure she was going to hit me just like I thought that time, too. But she didn't. She just went into her bedroom and shut the door. But I could still hear her crying in there. And I felt so terrible; I could have just killed myself for saying such a stupid thing. What I meant was that to anyone who didn't know better, that's how it might have looked, like we kids were shifting for ourselves a lot of the time, too. Oh, darn it, anyway! It just seems that so many of the things I say come out all wrong. And the funny thing is I don't say much; I'm just not a talker. I like thinking to myself so much better. And right now what I'm thinking to myself is that it will be best if I just keep my mouth completely shut from now on! That way I won't wind up saying something stupid and hurting someone else's feelings.


Thursday, December 3, 1959
…Billy is always somewhere on my mind. Sometimes he's right in the front, but sometimes he has to be pushed to the back because I have things I need to do. Things like school, helping Mama, or even playing with Johnny. Sometimes it seems to me that Billy isn't even real at all, though, that he's just a dream because I almost never get to see him. And if I do, he doesn't talk to me. A lot of times I think he goes out of his way to ignore me. And I don't have any idea why. Maybe he doesn't like me anymore. Maybe he never really did. But I still like him anyway, the same as always. It's just another thing I don't understand. I just know that it makes me hurt real bad inside. It also makes me feel just like I did when I was six years old, walking home from school with Rollie—like I'm all by myself out in the middle of nowhere.