As I wrote yesterday, my mother adored Anne Morrow Lindbergh and of course, her hero husband, Charles. Mom belonged to a book club, where to start it, one could buy a tremendous amounts of books at ridiculously low amount of money, with a "free" gift included. She spent a lot of money on books that we all enjoyed. She always read her gift before she gave someone a book. Easier to do with the old hardbacks than the modern day paperbacks that are so expensive.
Mom ordered those two compilations of diaries and letters. Her enthusiasm encouraged me to read them. As I noted yesterday, Anne's descriptions of her life drove a desire for me to write like that. I found, though, like Anne, I craved the quiet of writing, finding it hard to write when life ran with activity.
I missed writing about life's adventures while they were happening. I slept in and didn't have my morning time alone to write, on trips, especially ours to Scotland in 1986. She taught the solitude of writing. Introspection in isolation I gathered from her books.
I kept this habit until just recently. Main Street, I started in the quiet of early morning. Fear of discovery, shyness, and doubt surrounded my journey. I find I am like Anne, that way, too. I love my solitude, yet when thrust with people, I find I love that, too. I'm not sure I would love the "cops-and-robbers pursuit...I felt like an escaped convict. This was not freedom." of her courtship and marriage to Charles. Servants were bribed. Every move spied upon. Writing censored because their high sense of privacy. Charles warned her to watch her writing because the world may read it tomorrow.
I think now, how different the world is. We don't have great firsts. We do have paparazzi, but those stalked rather invited the noise in their lives. Charles only did what he loved, not seeking the fame. Anne truly did not seek it. "Fame is a kind of death." She even stopped writing in her diary for three years. A lid was clamped on her expression. Now Twitters attract attention and all tweets are public by nature.
Years later, most likely the 1980's, a theory made public that Charles actually kidnapped and killed their son, Charles, Jr. My mother became mad at that. That generation believed in their heroes.The Crime of the Century stamped an impression on my mother. She angered often at the "historians" searching for dirt on her heroes.
Anne's descriptions and her habits stayed with me. I had somewhat put her out of my mind over the years. Last August, when we drove through New Jersey, a sign pointed to their home, where the infamous kidnapping occurred. I knew where the books were in our basement and I grabbed them to refer to the pictures. I read snippets, promising to read the book again. My journal keeping for years followed the pattern I emulated from these books.