“A woman’s beauty lies not in her appearance, but in the beauty of her soul. It is the care she lovingly gives, the passion she shows. A woman’s beauty grows with the years. ~Audrey Hepburn
I took a break from graduate school and went home for the summer. As I walked into my childhood room with my suitcase and duffel bag in hand, I noticed a small brown box on the bed. I put my bag on the floor.
The box contained a few simple items labeled “Mudder.” The nickname we gave our grandma.
Mulder recently died at the age of ninety-four after spending several years in a nursing home. I attended her small and sweet funeral, grateful to have a grandmother that I truly loved and knew that she loved me too.
Just before I left school, Dad and Uncle Zeke checked out her estate, sorted out their stuff between them, and took care of all the things the kids had to deal with during this time. We each had a small amount of money left. Growing up during the Great Depression and living through World War II, Mulder learned to live a simple lifestyle.
But no one mentioned the brown box I now found on my bed. I realized it was designated for me.
Inside were two cardigans, a jewelry box and a diary from five years when she was in her twenties. What a precious treasure!
Growing up, Mulder was just my grandmother. Sometimes when I’m feeling wise, she’s my dad’s mom.
I always knew my dark hair was hers. I also inherited her sense of humor, her love of reading, and my name, Katherine. She was born a day before me, and there were several years between us, and it was Valentine’s Day, which I always thought was cool.
I know she played the organ for her church and taught me how to play moon river and always. Every time we visited her in Atlanta, Georgia, we knew we would have the same breakfast: bologna, scrambled eggs, buttered toast, and cut fruit.
I also learned that she had a sharp tongue that every member of the family would take turns using. She wears orthotics, does crossword puzzles with ease, goes for walks around her house every day, and scratches my back for more than an hour at a time.
I would occasionally ask her questions about her life and what it was like growing up in the 1930s. She would tell me about our Irish roots, what happened to each of her nine siblings, and what she did on her recent trip to Florida to visit her cousins. I would ask her to tell me about the stars because I knew she had been interested in them a long time ago.
But that’s it. She is my grandmother. I love her and she loves me.
However, once her diary was entrusted to me, I realized the obvious that I had spent my life with her ignoring.
My grandmother was also a young woman.
An engaged woman.
U.S. Navy celestial navigator in the 1940s.
In this precious diary given to me, I wrote five years of her life in her own voice and in her own hands.
The period for each page of the journal is five years. In a calendar day, there will be five sections to write each year’s date, with three lines designated for each year. The entries are short but full of life.
On one page, I could see five years of her history.
From her first day at Naval Air Station Corpus Christi, Texas, the day she met my grandfather, the day he proposed, and the day she yelled at him because he stayed up all night Out drinking and womanizing while she took care of her two little boys.
I learned how nervous and excited she was about starting a new career. What was going on at the naval base and what were her living arrangements like. I began to read her history through the eyes of a bright, hopeful, and ultimately heartbroken woman.
I don’t know much about my grandfather. He died of a stroke before I was born. I knew he was funny, charming, played sports and fished on Sundays. He also loved the bottle and was running all over my grandmother.
They eventually divorced. No one talks about it much. After all, that was a long time ago. Also, I’m not sure how many people know. Everything is a bit mysterious and quiet.
During the first year of her diary, I read about some of the friends she made and the wonderful times she spent at the base. Reading about the anticipation and wide-eyed joy my grandmother Katherine Valentine felt during her first week in Corpus Christi made me smile and giggle for her. “Oh, Mulder, look at you. Aren’t you brave?
Maybe she was also where I gained my sense of adventure? I never considered this.
It was interesting to read about the day she met my grandfather Norm. She was mesmerized. This is no longer the patchwork story that surviving family members told me. This happens on the page.
The clear picture shows a woman in her twenties, with twinkling eyes and a full heart. Mulder fell in love.
This is my grandmother. A beautiful, bold, romantic woman.
This energetic and joyful young girl goes to the movies with her partner, laughs at his jokes, introduces him to her friends, and accepts the proposal of the sunny man who she thinks will be the love of her life.
My Mulder, a talented young navigator, became my wife. Then Doug’s mother, then Richard. She loves them so much.
But like the diaries of many mothers with young children, the frequency of these entries has decreased significantly. She devoted herself to taking care of her two little boys and taking care of the family. Thankfully, the entries don’t exactly stop there. She did eventually cover holidays, birthdays, and the time Norm got drunk in front of her kids and was picked up by “her” again.
This is not my ninety-four-year-old grandmother sitting next to me reading a book with her large lenses on. Here was a radiant woman, heartbroken, and two sweet, sunny boys who were actually the loves of her life.
As I read her diary, I felt a deep connection with her. She had lived many lives before I came along.
How foolish I was to think that Katherine Valentine was just my grandmother. Yes, she is Mulder, my beloved grandmother. But she is also a woman, full of thoughts, feelings, dreams, disappointments, achievements and memories.
No matter how old she gets, no matter what her circumstances, she’s still the same young, brave girl.
Mulder and Catherine are always the same person. I never knew.
How lucky and privileged I am to be the keeper of her diary. Her story and voice are on these pages. I realized she was a dynamic woman and not just my devoted grandmother, which was such a gift.
When I think about the experience of reading her diary and having even a small part of her world open to me, I’m reminded of bringing this curiosity into all my encounters with others. It’s easy to view other people as two-dimensional, part of a transaction, or just passers-by.
But everyone we meet has their own sweet and broken life story. We all have moments of longing, happiness, regret, and sadness. But if we don’t look outward, we may not recognize this in each other. We just need to slow down, listen, be open, and acknowledge how dynamic we all are.
We may never know much about the lives of the people we come into contact with. But in the few seconds we interact or walk past each other, we should respect each other. Just as we have our own experiences and desires, others have the same experiences and desires.
They also have their own Katherine Valentine story.
**Image generated by AI
About Caroline Busiek
Caroline Busick is the owner of the Make It Joy website and podcast, which is designed to help you live your best, happiest life. She provides free and paid content, digital resources, retreats, and life coaching services to support you on your journey to a life you love. www.makeitjoy.com What is your joyful style? Quiz https://ivlv.me/wqQxb
