In a reflective mood, KC continues her story with this entry from Oct. 1, 1968 (a Tuesday)

    The first day of October, my favorite month, I think, though they’re all hard to choose from. 

    The days are long and full, there is little time for thoughts but I manage to squeeze in some time each day for real rest. 

    Eileen is not feeling well; she has a virus.  I hope I don’t catch it; they really crack down on you at Fontbonne if you don’t come in.  But I have very good teachers on the whole and am happy. 

    Last night I woke up about quarter past one; Mom had come down to see Eily.  I looked out the window to the back yard.  The outside light was on, giving an eery look to the trees and grass.  Everything looked as though it had been modeled in clay., and painted brightly, and all was so still.  Immediate things were lit up in sharp relief, and farther away was blackness.  It was a strange sight and that is why I write of it. 

    It’s usually pretty quiet around here.  Sometimes on a weekend night the teen-agers act up, screaming and carrying on like a cat fight.  Other than that, it’s pretty peaceful.  ‘Course, in the daytime, around the afternoon its’ noisy all out.  Day and night you can hear the trucks going down the Stop & Shop highway and the freights [i.e. trains] up the street bumping into each other and groaning like dying men. 

    The people aren’t that snobbish here; they don’t have anything to be snobbish about.  Once upon a time I guess this town was a pretty fancy place but not now.  Not that it’s low class.  I like it here.  You can still feel the oldness, the burnt sunshine dried on bricks or lost in the old boards of houses, the lace-curtain bushes in the spring, the rheumatic trees of winter.

    Why, down in Wolcott Square, just in the summer, I think it was, there was this old car, with a rumble seat and you would have sworn that if you took a photo nobody’d know the difference between now and fifty years ago, from the picture. 

    I am having a big Latin test to study for, tomorrow.  I am not exactly overeager about that. 

    I think I love words as much as I do colour.  Painting and writing are my best sources of pleasure.  I like to paint the things around me and I like to write of the things I know best.  Once I was told that there is no better authority than myself except God about one thing.  And that is myself. 

    That is so.  Each man, or at least most, I feel, knows his best consciously and his worst subconsciously.  My aim is to know myself, good and bad, equally, thus the better prepared to rid myself of bad. 

    So much for Freudian Chisholm.  At least I usually only analyze myself.  Nothing like having a built in head-shrinker. 

    I dislike using the names of people around me in this account.  If anyone is offended at any time I beg his pardon.  However it is because I consider him interesting enough to write about and because that person has had some touch on my life. 

    Anyway, night is pulling its shade over Readville.  Not so long and all shall be darkness but for blocks of light here and there and the blinking red light over the Blue Hills and the streetlights glowing.  Autumn night, cold and quiet. 

    Well, I suppose I had better write about my birthday, which is today. 

    But we started Friday, with the presents and the cake.  I got the Andrew Wyeth book from Dad which is great and an illustrated book of American folklore.  Also a Paul Mauriat record, the latest out, a box of Baklava (a Greek cake covered with honey), a box of mints, two candles, an orange, and a green, from Eily, and a small notebook from Bob with two pretty flowers on the cover. 

    Mommy bought me a watch and Helena got a lovely pea-jacket and gave me two dollars and Grandmother gave me twenty dollars. 

    In school today, at lunch, m. b. brought in some cupcakes that spelled out “Happy Birthday”.  She gave me a watchband, Patty some bath oil stuff, and Debby gave me a diary and photo album. 

    So that was my birthday and it was a good one.  Now I am 15.  Or, to be precise, I will be 15 at 20 minutes past 10 later tonight. 

    Now then.  Deep down (and sometimes not so deep, unfortunately) most people like to talk about themselves, and I’m no exception.  ‘Course, I’ve written a lot about myself in here, but what in the world else do you write about in a personal journal? 

    But I don’t think I’ve written much about my character or personality.  It shows through, I suppose, but not everything.  So I’ll set the record straight, so to speak. 

    First of all, I’m very stubborn.  Count that as good or bad, as you will, but I put it as good.  Stubbornness in my mind is a great virtue if you’re being so about the right things.  ‘Course, you might call it perseverance, but I call it stubbornness. 

    I’m as independent as they come.  Nobody, but nobody, makes me do something I really don’t want to do, that doesn’t agree with my principles; which I think is ok, since I know I have good principles. 

    I believe in calling a spade a spade and not “a geometric figure, coloured black, found on playing cards; etc. , etc.”  Put things as they are, don’t gum up the works. 

    I hate, despise, detest the least glimpse of insincerity.  That is my pet bugaboo. 

    I have many deep emotions and feelings and ideas, too, but I rarely show them. 

    Mainly, that is because I just cannot talk face to face with another person about myself.  There is too much in me, some of them very big things, some of them mean, but much too much.  I thank heaven for the fact that God has given me creative outlets for my feelings and ideas.  Without them I think I would crack up. 

    I am a person of many moods.  I am usually pretty rough, but underneath I can be gentle. 

    I hate to see anyone embarrassed or worried, because that is so often the way with me. 

    I am also terribly lazy and would rather stay home all day than go to school, but I know that wouldn’t work. 

    I am very strong-willed.  Often I set myself a high goal and work until I achieve it.  I refuse to give up, unless I see that it is hopeless.  Then I stop right away. 

    I hate to waste things and I like everything to be just so. 

    I watch every move and I trust no one.  I am a very suspecting person. 

    I am a penny-pincher.  I get bored easily on things I don’t like and can spend eight-hours straight on a painting, with no real break in between, with every nerve tense. 

    I am vain (heaven knows over what) and proud. 

    I am patriotic and loyal to my creed. 

    I don’t think I am overloaded with prejudice and I’m sick and tired of being told I am. 

Oct. 8, 1968  (a Tuesday) 

    We’ve been having a lot of wet weather lately.  Gettin’ pretty cold, too.  By about Halloween it should be cold enough for a winter coat. 

    Ann Marie gave me a box of pastels for my birthday. 

    I think I got a 100 on a Biology test today. 

    I’m telling you, Bobby, comes in here (the living room) and starts talking and I don’t think he’ll ever shut up.  He yaks on and on.  That boy would make a great Irish politician. 

    We’re reading Brave New World by Huxley in school now.  Quite a book, that.  Makes you think, you know?  Fact of the matter is, a world like that sounds pretty awful.  ‘Course, the way I see it, there’s always going to be a Catholic Church until the end of the world, and so that would make some difference. 

    And you have to admit that much of the good points of our culture and civilization is due to the church.  She didn’t start automation, she didn’t invent bombs. 

    You know, to harp on a very old theme, reason and faith do go together, but I am appalled at the number of people who don’t really believe that.  I mean like, science is a product of men’s using their minds, called reasoning, right?  And reason and faith go together, right?  (But faith transcends reason, if I remember correctly.)  So if there’s anything wrong, it’s Science; from imperfect man; rather than true faith; from perfect God, a supernatural gift. 

    But, oh no, all this rushing about and getting upset.  If there’s one thing I cannot stand, it’s rushing about.  When are people going to grow up? 

    (If you don’t believe what I said above, see St. Thomas [Aquinas], he’s much better at it than I am.) 

    Crazy world, I don’t know why I care for you at all. 

    But, actually, like I said before, I like people as individuals, not in groups.  I can feel for individuals but not for the world, as such. 

You know, it’s the people who talk it the loudest who mean it the least.  (And people who speak the truth in the loudest tones, same thing.  Truth is best spoken in an even tone.). Boy have I heard a lot of talking about civil rights and poverty and the generation gap and what we should do in Vietnam.  It’s not that I don’t feel it’s a good thing to talk on these subjects, but oh! it gets me so mad when all the yakkers sit on their thrones and tell the slaves how to do their work. 

    Of course I know the above can be translated slightly differently from the way I intend. 

    Well, to make myself clearer. 

    A lot of people live in suburban towns with a good deal of money. 

    A lot of people live in Boston who don’t have a lot of money. 

    The towns don’t have thousands of poor colored.  Or poor anything else, for that matter. 

    Boston does. 

    And the suburbans write in to the Boston papers saying what a crying shame it all is that Boston doesn’t help the poor coloreds. 

    Now, of course, in this day and age I could get shot for what I’ve written, but it’s written from a poor Bostonian’s point of view, whose parents pay heavy Boston taxes and who remembers living in a house in a poor neighborhood with cracks in the walls patched with mending tape and mice running around in the bedroom at nights.  Don’t worry, I know what it’s like to be poor.  And to have a rotten 10 year old car that doesn’t start in the winter, with the underneath all rusted. 

    Sure.  And something else.  I’ve watched my parents strive for something better than what they had. 

    You can give a man everything, but it’s not half as good as working for it yourself. 

    It’s so easy to talk, so hard to work.  The spirit is willing, the flesh is weak, so often, so often.  Poor men. 

    Work, you lumbering cowards, work!  Set yourself a goal and strive towards it! 

    Oh, man, with your foolish wisdom, when will you learn? 

    It is not in the heart of man to ever be satisfied, fully satisfied as he was made to be, while he lives on this earth. 

    But I have one more thing to say. 

    Don’t set any goal for yourself that is beneath you honour as a man.  (“Man” as in: a rational creature with an eternal soul; not man as sex ) 

    And anything short of God cannot satisfy man’s immortal soul. 

    So.  Let your highest and foremost goal be God.  And all else shall come. 

    Now then.  What I have written above is but some of the things I am learning.  I asked for this and I am receiving.  It is all very beautiful. 

    (But it sounds awful when I write it.  Oh, well! ) 

Oct. 9, 1968  (a Wednesday) 

    I had really better get studying.  (Do you notice I always say that and then write about 5 pages?) 

    Well, I’m not going to, tonight, at least I don’t think so, because I really do have a lot of work to do, but I want to remind myself to write about Blessed McGill. 

Oct. 21, 1968  (a Monday)

    I hate writing on the bottom of the page because I have to hold the book by my hand then and it’s uncomfortable. 

    However, I have found this to be interesting to write on the whole. 

    Right now, Mom and Dad are talking about me.  I suppose it’s for my benefit.  Dad said I was a rotten little b＿＿, which kind of makes me mad.  But you hear a lot of that stuff and you get used to it after a while. 

    Eileen is singing.  She’s getting better at it, I think.  Bobby is a hopeless case. 

    By the way, I’d like — 

    I really can’t remember what I’d like.  I must have been interrupted by someone. 

    That above, that’s typical in our family.  No complaints, though.  Honest, I love my people. 

Oct. 27, 1968  (a Sunday)

    The ’68 Olympics are going on now in Mexico, in fact, I was watching them here just a few minutes ago on the television. 

    Cardinal Cushing, of Boston, tried to resign because of his defense of Jacqueline Kennedy’s marriage to Mr. Onassis.  However, it is doubtful that Pope Paul will let the cardinal resign for that particular reason, rather the resignation would have to be done to ill health, old age, etc. 

    Sandy and June, Mom’s and dad’s friends, came tonight all dressed up in funny clothes, like for Halloween. 

    Grandpa got me a Wallace pin.  We’re rooting for him for president, but, really, I don’t think any of us expect him to win.  In fact, we don’t have anything against Nixon, who seems the most likely one to be the next president.  Humphrey isn’t that bad of a man.  It’s just that we, being a working family, prefer George Wallace. 

    Of course, since history is the propaganda of the winners, who knows what story tomorrow’s kids will get? 

    The Church is getting more and more in the newspaper.  I am not all for this change, change, change bit. 

    Oh, my world, my world.  I love you so and cannot have you. 

Oct. 27, 1968  (a second entry on that Sunday)

    Sunday is my day to get angry.  Just read this liberal piece about the church.  May I quote.   “he (Father Stuman, whoever he might be) and other liberal Catholic theologians consider it [the Churches Doctrine of Infallibility] ‘a mistake’ ”. 

    Now, look.  I don’t know much about theology, etc., but I know people.  Tell them to do something and they immediately ask, on whose authority do you ask me to do this?  For goodness’ sake, that’s human nature.  I would ask, too. 

    If the Church were not infallible she would have no hold on people whatsoever.  Why do I believe in her?  Because I believe in God, that’s why.  Not God an idea, God.  He Who Is. 

    Human authority isn’t enough.  It never could be, but divine authority is.  Can God lie ?  No !