“On my wedding night, I was shocked! You have to understand I had absolutely no idea what was going to happen. My mother didn’t discuss it, my father certainly wouldn’t talk to a mere girl about such activities. I was the oldest sister, so I didn’t have someone else to explain things to me. The closest female relative I had was a maiden aunt who was more elsewhere in her mind than in the present day. She cackled through a few things that made no sense. When my new husband disrobed in front of me, I was shocked, to say the least ... I mean just what was that thing hanging between his legs?”

Those were the first words of my Great-Great-Grandmother’s diary, a book that had been gathering dust in a box in my mother’s attic for decades. I was in the middle of clearing out her house to put it on the market. This was the house my parents built after their only child graduated from college almost thirty years ago. I’d never lived here, but my parents loved it. Even after Dad passed, my Mom couldn’t see herself living anywhere else. So now that she’d gone after a short bout with breast cancer, I found myself owning a house that I didn’t want. I would gladly trade it to have her and Dad back, but we cannot win them all!

Since she knew how I felt about the house, her will specified the house was to be sold. This also meant that most of my weekends for the foreseeable future were going to be spent going through the house, keeping anything of family or sentimental value, and moving that stuff to my own small house a couple of hours away. Right now my little Honda was packed full of boxes of pictures, mementos, and some legal paperwork when I found these three boxes that I remembered from my own childhood.

In the house I grew up in, the attic was normally off-limits, but one summer we had the most horrendous weather, rain nearly every day. I’m not talking about a drizzle, I am talking about such rain that the farmers were nervous about their crops and people were worried about their roofs. I guess I was driving my mother crazy so she suggested I go play in the attic. It was dusty and musty and full of boxes. In my mind, each one was a treasure chest to behold. Mom hadn’t sent me up there solo, she came up with me and we played such games for what felt like hours. I found boxes of old photo albums Mom had forgotten we had, a box of old plaques from Dad’s time in the military, and tons of fun stuff to an eight-year-old.

In the farthest reaches of the attic were several well-sealed boxes. Mom wouldn’t let me touch them, but it didn’t stop my imagination from playing with them. She told me they were from a very long time ago and one day we would open them together, but not until I was older.

We never got to them. I’m sure you can imagine the attention span of a very young and energetic girl, especially once the weather settled down and I was allowed to terrorize the neighborhood with my friends again. I don’t think I ever thought about those boxes until seeing them in my mother’s new attic. No labeling, just very thick cardboard and lots and lots of tape. I don’t think Mom ever opened them herself, that’s how old the layers of tape looked. But even how old the boxes certainly were, they were in surprisingly good shape and I treated them gently when I finally opened them.

I found many items packed with great care. Some clothing from a period long ago. I would have loved to play dress-up with them years back, but when I held them against my body, I figured they belonged to someone who was barely five feet tall. I would have seemed like a giant to her seeing as I am an inch and a half under six feet. It was fun going through the boxes, some jewelry, and small bric-a-brac, nothing valuable except within the family. I recognized one lovely necklace from pictures. But then I hit the books.

Five fancy leather-bound books locked with straps and each labeled by hand with years. A diary or I should say a set of diaries. If you know me, then you know damn well that was all the clearing I was doing that day. I had books to read.

The first diary started the day after her wedding and boy was it an eye-opener. I guess the idea of teaching the birds and the bees to girls wasn’t something that happened back then. In many ways, I really did feel sorry for her. She didn’t even know the anatomical differences. I guess that first time her new hubby elected to take advantage of his connubial rights, she was really shocked! Imagine not knowing at least how the different pieces and parts fit together. The poor girl!

A few weeks later she wrote:

“I think my husband hates me. I mean night after night, time after time. He seems to take so much pleasure and ignores how it made me feel. I tried to talk to my mother about it, but all I got was ‘a wife’s duty!’ and other platitudes. I guess the only good thing is the monthly bleeding stopped. My mother made such a big deal about it a couple of years ago.”

“Oh wow!” I thought to myself. “She didn’t even know she was pregnant?” I kept reading and saw the note when she finally realized she was pregnant. Talk about another shock to the system!

Her diary continued, she even wrote about her doctor visits and how the male doctor finally sat her down and explained some of what was happening, even though it took the doctor’s secretary to give her a full and rational explanation. In her words:

“Estelle, the doctor’s secretary, seemed to have more medical knowledge than the doctor, or at least she was more willing to share with a female patient and was considerably more forthcoming.”

Talk about a fascinating story. While there were paragraphs and paragraphs of insignificant detail, I could trace every part of her pregnancy. The morning sickness that drove her to the doctor in the first place. Even the pride she saw in her husband’s face when his family was finally told of her condition. While the words were rather archaic, I realized she felt herself being treated like a prized broodmare!

“The only saving grace were the visits from Estelle. She insisted on calling me “Mrs. Adamson” and refused to call me by my given name. Ostensibly, the visits were allowed because of my condition, but Estelle was a maiden and was considered a bit eccentric for never having been married. But because of how delicately everyone treated me, her visits were allowed and possibly encouraged because I always found myself much happier after each visit.”

As my Great-Great’s pregnancy advanced, Estelle was more acting as a midwife than a doctor’s secretary. I wonder if that was her actual role since nursing wasn’t a woman’s career until years later. Finally, the day arrived, I guess because there were several weeks between entries.

“My husband is not happy. Apparently, I broke some family trait and gave birth to a daughter instead of a son as firstborn. He’s barely spoken to me since the birth and his family, particularly his mother, went back to treating me like part of the furniture.”

Apparently, things barely improved when my Great-Great-Grandfather started exercising his ‘rights’ again. It caused some issues with Grandma and she found herself back at the doctor’s office. Like her previous visits, it was Estelle who talked, reassured, and even treated her when the doctor could barely discuss it with her.