“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 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 a number of 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 ignoring 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 then 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, is 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.

“It is Estelle that made all this bearable because the Doctor spent more time in his office talking with my husband than saying anything to me. When the door opened a cloud of cigar smoke billowed out, I knew neither of them had me on their minds. I thank God for Estelle every single day.”

I was thinking Estelle went from basically a nurse to a trusted friend over the next few months. Her husband was barely mentioned, just her new daughter, Abigail, and time spent with Estelle. If I didn’t know better, she seemed to spend more time there than my Great-Great-Grandfather.

I skimmed lightly and then a paragraph caught my eye. It took me several times to read it before I think I understood it.

“Estelle insisted on examining me today. She made it sound like a follow-up, even though it has been months since Abigail was born. I was profoundly uncomfortable, but Abigail was down for a nap and we actually had some private time together. She had me remove most of my clothing and lay back on my bed. Then she touched me in a way that made me feel very strange, but in a wonderful way.”

Grandma didn’t go into more detail than that, but I suspect she just had her first orgasm! “Holy shit!” Weeks and months of sex, that I knew she wasn’t prepared for it, but to not have had an orgasm! No wonder she hated it. "Doesn’t say much for Granddad, does it?” I sort of snickered to myself.

The pages were full of subtle references to other medical issues, but the bottom line was it looked as if my grandmother wasn’t going to be having any more children. If I remember the family bible, Abigail was an only child. My Mom told me there might have been others, but infant mortality in those days was pretty fearsome. However, I think even a stillborn or one who died in infancy would have merited an entry. But there wasn’t. Abigail herself did eventually go on to be a significant matriarch and had seven children who survived to adulthood and two that did not. But for Abigail’s generation, she was the lone entry.

The diary entries became more and more cryptic, I think she was somewhat afraid of my grandfather reading them. The words about Estelle, even watered down, showed a depth of feeling that only Abigail also reached. When Abigail reached 5 or 6 years old, Estelle was hired as a tutor for her. By this point, there was barely a mention of my grandfather, other than his spending more and more time in the city and taking a townhouse there to avoid having to travel so often. When grandmother mentioned the number of maids he went through there, I do suspect there were other reasons, as I think did she, but she never came out and simply said it. Months later, she wrote:

“My husband finally agreed that I needed help around the house and with Abigail. I may have overstated my health problems a small bit, but it wasn’t something a gentleman discussed. But the better news is he agreed for me to hire someone to help me and to tutor Abigail. I could think of no one better than Estelle.  She moves in tomorrow, I can't wait!”

“Wow, Estelle moved in! I didn’t see that one coming.” She went on to describe some detailed things about Estelle and her duties, it almost read like a job description, and in a way, I think it was. Maybe she was copying something she sent to her husband to help justify or clarify, but it didn’t look like he really cared all that much.

After a while, the words really changed. With Estelle around, my grandmother was finally happy about something. Reading between the lines told me a lot. I honestly think my Great-Great-Grandmother had become a very tightly closeted Lesbian. “Holy crap! Go Grandma!” It wasn’t what she said, but more how she said it and what she didn’t say. Estelle was mentioned more and more.

Abigail got older, only unlike her mother, she did not grow up in ignorance. I started jumping through the books, trying to put some pieces together. In the third book, Abigail got married, but to someone she had known most of her life.

“Today my daughter got married to the best possible match. Jonathan and she have been friends for most of their lives and I know she won’t go through what I did, not with Estelle and I in her corner. It was the first time in several years I laid eyes on my husband.  He's aged for some reason.  He barely looked at me throughout the ceremony.  After her wedding night, she came to me and hugged me, telling me she was so sorry how my life had gone at this same point. She told me she understood everything, including Estelle.”

I took that to mean my Abigail was a pretty smart cookie and I guess was very progressive well before her time! There was so much left unsaid, that is until I found a letter tucked in the back of the fourth book.

“My dearest Essie,

I know I have often failed to tell you what you meant to myself and my daughter and I also know you would tell me that the words do not matter, but I have to say them even now when you cannot hear them. Estelle, I love you! You came into my life at my lowest. I knew and understood so very little and you were so patient with me. I think I fell in love with you before I even understood what it meant.

You should also be proud of Abigail. She is as much your daughter as mine. She is strong and so independent and smart! I look at her and marvel that I had anything to do with her and then I would see the two of you together and know she received more from you than any other single person, including myself.

I love you, my dear Essie. I hope you know that. I tried to show you often even if the words often failed me. You were the one constant in my life that really made my life worth living. I know people believe that children do that, but without you, I do not believe I would have been able to raise Abigail well, no matter how much I know I loved her.

I also know how much you loved Abigail, while I know you never used those words when she was young. But I could see it in your eyes every time you looked at her. She often referred to you as ‘Aunt Estelle’, but I know she really thinks of you as ‘Momma Estelle’. I realize I am not supposed to know that, but I have for years and I agreed with her on that, even if she never used that phrase in public.

I wanted you to know the impact you had on both of us, even if it’s too late to tell you.

Goodbye, my darling Estelle. Abigail and I will miss you every day. I know we have an Angel looking over us even as you did in life.

I do so love you,

Martha”

I cried reading that letter, realizing it would never have been able to be delivered. My Great-Great had been through much but certainly led an interesting life, one I would have never expected, not for that time period. I was proud of her for so many reasons. I lifted up the last volume and realized the handwriting was different, it was Abigail’s. I put it aside for the moment. I have a feeling it was going to be an interesting read!