Yes, I know this blog is supposed to be about Being Old. But part of being old is cleaning out bottom drawers, and coming upon things that haven't been touched for -- in this case -- almost three-quarters of a century. I can't believe I wrote this, can't believe I ever put raw feelings down on paper -- it's just not me. But here's the evidence. All I can say is, I must have had it bad. Never wrote anything like this again in my life. I won't change a single comma; it's SO 15 years old.
It's 1941, I'm at summer camp. It's still Girls' Camp in July, Boys' Camp in August. By next summer they'll have to make it co-ed all summer and hire us as paid counselors, because so many men -- really just boys, I realize now -- will be off to war. But I digress.
I must have been hard-up for paper, because I wrote this outburst on the backs of the mimeographed camp newspaper--remember mimeograph? So:
This will make a fine short story -- I hope I can describe this emotion after it wears off -- if I feel like smiling at myself now for writing like an adolescent in a "lock & key diary" about a perfect person -- if I amuse myself now -- will I be able to remember how I feel two weeks from now? -- I love to dramatize myself. This is something else new -- this writing down for no purpose of something that only concerns me -- I'll probably do it often some day -- or is it bad for me?
This is what falling in love will feel like -- I mean, I'll recognize it immediately -- I often wondered if I would. Falling in love, then, will not entail any desire to do anything more than be near someone -- or is it different from this?
This is what is called a crush!
Edith is a dope!
I doubt if that counselor even knew my name, but yes, Her name comes back to me now and -- who'd have thought it? -- so does that old feeling. What do you suppose became of her? She'd be more than 90 now. She's probably dead.