Lorraine's funeral was this morning. Bethany was full to the back wall, and a g…

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{
 "$type": "n_type_journal_entry",
 "id": "n_journal_2023_04_29",
 "createdAt": "1682801100000",
 "date": "2023-04-29T20:45:00.000Z",
 "body": "Lorraine's funeral was this morning. Bethany was full to the back wall, and a great many of the people in it were between twenty-five and fifty and had once been eight years old in her library.\n\nI spoke for nine minutes. I had timed it at home, with R. holding the stopwatch from his tackle box. She told me to keep it under ten.\n\nWhat I said, in outline, so that I have it. That she was a librarian, which is not the same as a person who likes books. That she believed the right book given to the right child on the right day could change which way a life ran, that she was right about that perhaps once in a hundred times, and that she considered those excellent odds. That in thirty years at Stony Brook she never told a child a book was too hard for him; she said, \"Try the first page and come back.\" That she kept a drawer of spare mittens. That she could find anything in any library in under two minutes and could not find her own car in a parking lot. I told about the swap table, and the jar in the cup holder, and the sign that said LIBRARIAN. I did not tell about the fire alarm in 1994, because she is not here to tell it back at me.\n\nI said that in the last weeks she had me read to her from a book she knew by heart, and that she corrected my voices to the end. People laughed, and I had to stop for it, which was a help.\n\nI did not say that I do not know whom I will telephone now when I finish a novel. I had it written down and took it out.\n\nMy voice went once, near the end, at the word \"Saturday.\" I looked at the exit sign.\n\nHal took both my hands afterward and could not speak. Annette said, \"She told me you'd come in at nine minutes.\" Vivian and I have agreed to telephone each other every April 22.\n\nThe lunch was ham sandwiches. I had made two pans of lemon bars from her card, and they were not as good as hers, and everyone ate them.\n\nR. wore the Omega and the dark suit and stood beside me the whole time with his hearing aids in, and heard every word, he says. In the car he said, \"You got her right.\"\n\nHer number is still in my telephone. I looked at it tonight.\n"
}

personas/retired-couple/records/journal-2023-2024.yaml:136

- id: journal-2023-04-29
  kind: journal_entry
  about: [lorraine-pfeiffer]
  date: 2023-04-29 20:45
  body: |
    Lorraine's funeral was this morning. Bethany was full to the back wall, and a great many of the people in it were between twenty-five and fifty and had once been eight years old in her library.

    I spoke for nine minutes. I had timed it at home, with R. holding the stopwatch from his tackle box. She told me to keep it under ten.

    What I said, in outline, so that I have it. That she was a librarian, which is not the same as a person who likes books. That she believed the right book given to the right child on the right day could change which way a life ran, that she was right about that perhaps once in a hundred times, and that she considered those excellent odds. That in thirty years at Stony Brook she never told a child a book was too hard for him; she said, "Try the first page and come back." That she kept a drawer of spare mittens. That she could find anything in any library in under two minutes and could not find her own car in a parking lot. I told about the swap table, and the jar in the cup holder, and the sign that said LIBRARIAN. I did not tell about the fire alarm in 1994, because she is not here to tell it back at me.

    I said that in the last weeks she had me read to her from a book she knew by heart, and that she corrected my voices to the end. People laughed, and I had to stop for it, which was a help.

    I did not say that I do not know whom I will telephone now when I finish a novel. I had it written down and took it out.

    My voice went once, near the end, at the word "Saturday." I looked at the exit sign.

    Hal took both my hands afterward and could not speak. Annette said, "She told me you'd come in at nine minutes." Vivian and I have agreed to telephone each other every April 22.

    The lunch was ham sandwiches. I had made two pans of lemon bars from her card, and they were not as good as hers, and everyone ate them.

    R. wore the Omega and the dark suit and stood beside me the whole time with his hearing aids in, and heard every word, he says. In the car he said, "You got her right."

    Her number is still in my telephone. I looked at it tonight.