Enough already.
For 69 years my mother kept a daily journal. Not a personal diary, but an account of what happened each day - each and every day.
Reading through them has become a little depressing. At first it was interesting to read about their daily life before I was born, and then my early childhood. Then it became a little obsessive, I had to keep reading, although, of course, I know how the story ends. When I ask my mother for more details she doesn't remember, and she has the years mixed up. Her writing was so factual that it is almost comical at times - April 19, 1941 "Ordered a roaster. Al's body recovered. Smiths came for dinner." The roaster didn't come for another month, but Al's funeral was in two days.
