|Subject:||Just for a fresh perspective, how 'bout an entry from Albie's diary? :)|
|Author:||Billina (Authenticated as Billina)|
|Date:||June 26, 2012 at 10:47:02 AM|
|Reply to:||Yeah, I'm up for it. :) by Billina|
June 26th, 1928
I have told Mother time and time again that lavender is my least favorite color, but does she listen? Absolutely not. Which is why I came home from school to find a new lavender dress hanging in my closet. It took all the strength I had not to tear it down and rip it to pieces. That woman has made a hobby out of annoying me.
Bridget tells me to keep calm and bite my tongue in her presence. I know she is right, but Bridget never had a mother like mine. When I tell her this, she gives me a wicked little half-smile to show me she knows what I say is true. I love Bridget. She has been with our family as long as I can remember, and I would surely lose my mind if I didn't have her.
Daddy is an ally, but I hardly see him. He runs the lumber mill, and I know his work requires a level of dedication most men are incapable of giving. That's what I love about him; he can always be counted on. He is a good man, kind and warm. One day, I will marry a man like my father...and Mother will blow her top. I don't care. She never appreciated Daddy for who he was, and that is her own fault. Grandmother told me years ago that she never learned to love anyone but that blasted Albert Francis.
Mother thinks I don't know about him, but Grandmother told me everything. Grandmother died when I was five, but I remember her clearly. She was a practical woman with a good head on her shoulders, the opposite of Mother. We would spend hours on Grandmother's big porch, talking about nothing and everything. Well, Grandmother would do most of the talking, and I would listen. I wanted to absorb every word she said. Grandmother told me that Mother and Albert were childhood sweethearts who closed everyone else off from their precious little dream world. No one was good enough to know their secrets. As a result, Mother grew up to be a dreamy, selfish woman. She still holds her former life close to her chest, refusing to accept the fact that it's over. Grandmother told me she would go to her grave an unhappy woman, and I don't doubt it. Mother has made a career out of being miserable.
Of course, she had to twist the knife in Daddy's back and name me Albertine. It's such a ridiculous name: Albertine Willoughby. My nickname gives it a sing-song cadence that makes me sick. I try not to say it out loud unless I absolutely have to.
However, there is one bright light at the end of the tunnel: my package should arrive any day now. I know Mother will stop in her tracks when she sees what Daddy has ordered for me, but I do not care. I will consider it payback for buying me that awful lavender dress.
Daddy and I saw it in a catalog, and I told him I had to have it. I have cleared a spot on top of my dresser so it will be the first thing people notice upon entering my room. Yes, a tiny model of the Titanic is exactly what Mother needs to shake her out of her dreamy state. She will dismiss it as coincidence, no doubt, but deep down she will know that I know. That's all I can ask for.
"An intellectual says a simple thing in a hard way. An artist says a hard thing in a simple way."
"And by the way, dearie, your punctuation sucks canal water!"
-The ghost of Vivian Vance
This message was edited by the author on June 26, 2012 at 10:49:01 AM
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