Did my rooms with Eleanor. Milford�s clothing. Martha called. Telephone responses to article. J.L. Lansing called. Dr. Ford came. R & G came � lunch from Carol�s food. Drive to cemetery and back by the park.

So reads the first entry in Aunt Hillary�s diary, a neat volume covered in smooth red leather and stamped �Five Year Diary� in gold script on the cover. It has a lock, as well, although the key�s been lost, and gilt-edged pages. The bookmark of narrow gold ribbon rests between July 24th and 25th.

Aunt Hillary is dead, and has been since 1993, but we, the family that saves everything, have this record of her life. I borrowed the diary from my Aunt Madrina, with a promise to return it. The entry I quoted above is, as I mentioned, the first one in the book, written a week or two after her husband�s death. I know that he died around Christmas of 1980, but there is no mention of his death in the pages, not even at the anniversary each year. There are vague mentions of packing his clothes (January 7th, 1982), but no note that reveals even a hint of emotion. Perhaps she kept another diary for more personal thoughts, but this particular book is filled with minor details on correspondence sent and received, discussions with the Japanese gardener about rare plants to be installed in the gardens, and the Ecuadorian dirndl she wore on Christmas morning of 1981. In short, the diary records a life totally removed from my own, and although I share Hillary�s instinct to record my daily events, hers is notable in its lack of colorful language, and in the absence of entries written under the influence of alcohol or blind rage.

Aunt Hillary was a formal lady, proper, exacting, not given to emotional outbursts. She, of all her siblings, married the most successfully, and lived all over the world with her husband, an executive of a giant engineering firm. She had collected artifacts and souvenirs from Paris, Kuwait, London, and her house was a riot of color and textures seemingly at odds with Hillary�s demeanor of extreme reserve. Her house, a multi-storied Victorian wedding cake--had a name�Rosecliff. The rooms in Rosecliff also had names�the Maid�s Room, which was papered with violets; the Lanai, which bloomed with orchids year-round; the Luri room was hung with silk carpets and colored glass lamps from her time in the Middle East. The whimsy that would seem to drive the naming of the various rooms of the house is wholly absent from the narrative of the diary, nor is it evident between the lines.

July 14th, 1983

Fiona did the maid�s room and lanai when I brought Taka upstairs for the day. I dressed, ready to change for the evening,, then worked on slides. Harry had brought the projector and I showed slides at church.

Taka was Hillary�s exotic cat�a nasty-tempered varicolored thing with a plushy coat and wide aqua eyes. Having no children, Hillary lavished attention on Taka, walking her on a brick path through the gardens on red leather leash, ordering a 14 karat gold tag engraved with the cat�s name and fitted with her birthstone (which was the same as mine, causing me much envy). Taka liked to swim, and so was allowed in the pool. Taka disliked children, and once attacked me, unprovoked, as I sat at the glass table, eating breakfast on what Hillary termed the lanai�a sunny room that ran the length of the house. The cat�s attack was hidden from the other diners by a silk floral arrangement on a stand beneath the table, leading Hillary and Uncle Milford to fix me with matching stern gazes of disapproval at my inexplicable outburst.

Because Taka disliked children (who were nonetheless fascinated by a swimming cat), when a group of us visited, interested parties were granted a private audience in Hillary�s bedroom with Taka, who sat, glaring, with Hillary on the silk-covered divan. Hillary would then treat us to a formal and informative lecture on the points of interest of the breed�details that drained the enjoyment out of the experience of seeing a cat who enjoyed to swim, and which I have failed to retain.

There are no such incidents reported in this diary, no details about Taka�s behavior, only that she was walked, or occasionally that she escaped, or returned. Each page is filled out in a tiny, neat hand�the only dates she skips are February 29th of 1981, �82, �83 and �85, 1984 being the only leap year in that span of time. In between May 23rd and 24th is a piece of paper on which she wrote a list, which reads as follows:

• chains


• Charley spray


• Needlepoint designs


• Milford�s death cert., passport files, etc., drivers lic.


• My passport, health cert., trav. checks


• Villa pictures

I don�t know what the chains are for�possibly to wear as necklaces, or to weigh down the hem of a jacket. It�s unlikely they were for tires, as she lived in a temperate climate, and although I like the hint of S&M, the possibility seems remote. �Charley spray� is equally unlikely, and probably a gift for the maid. I can�t imagine Hillary wearing a mundane drugstore fragrance.

Aunt Hillary�s diary is so formal as to remove all the potential prurient interest from the experience of reading someone else�s thoughts. Still, it has inspired me and Aunt Madrina to start our own five-year diaries. After an exhaustive search only three days before the new year, we located some suitable diaries and are now waiting for their arrival from Canada. The national day of mourning for James Brown has stopped the mail today, so delivery is delayed, but I made notes of yesterday�s activities, and am ready to transfer them into my own red leather journal when it arrives. Owing to the need to fit five years on a single page, the space for each entry is limited to three lines, so it will be a challenge to know what to write. I have no maid or gardener, nor a cat that requires walking, so that will save some space. Then again, I do have the Keelhauler, whose activities require a journal of their own. In addition, I lack Hillary�s skill at penmanship, so I�ll have to train myself to stay within the space required. Or not. I guess time will tell.