There are many reasons to keep a journal of one’s life.

Today, Facebook has largely automated that process, and so now one can scroll back over the months and years with the click of a button and the scroll of a mouse. In “my day,” however, pen and paper were largely the only means to accomplish the tedious task of chronicling one’s life.

Thirty years to the day before writing and posting this entry, I was living in Boulogne-Billancourt, a large community abutting the western edge of Paris, France. For a short time during the three months I lived in a three bedroom apartment at 231 Boulevard Jean Jaures in the city, I was actually working daily in Paris itself.

At the time I had been living in France since February, and would continue living there for another year. The circumstances of my two years in France aside, it was during that period that I kept the only regular journal I have made. In its 263 pages are not only recitations and accounts of daily events, but on a frequent basis those pages also include reflections on thoughts which were occupying my mind.

On that day, November 20, 1981, I made a three page entry. It began with a bit of honesty that suggests one of the only pitfalls in journal or diary writing:

“Although I may end up tearing these next couple of pages out of here, which I hope I’ll never do, I’m going to try and be frank and honest, although I realize my future posterity may think a bit less of me. But, if I can ever overcome this, I’ve every reason to be proud of the struggle.”

I have to add at this point that it is a strange beast, that of quoting oneself. And, of course, it goes without saying that I never did tear those pages out of the journal. Thank God.

The entry goes on to relay a relatively complex personality struggle which sounds vaguely familiar to my ears. Three decades later I remember the angst I felt in the situation, but not all of the details. At the same time, the modern “me” recognizes the lack of maturity which is evidenced in those pages. I was, after all, still a young Galion boy living in a foreign country thousands of miles from family and friends. I had yet to finish college, marry, and have children. Basically, I had yet to live much of a life.

As an entry a few days later reveals, it was largely a conversation with a roommate which helped to rectify the situation referred to above. It was also Thanksgiving week, and we Americans in Paris banded together and enjoyed a self-made feast (well, as much of a feast as six young guys can create) of “…a 125 franc ($25) turkey with 2 kinds of potatoes, corn, yeast rolls, cinnamon rolls, deviled eggs, and banana crème and strawberry crème pies for desert.”

And talk about full circle – the roommate who helped me with kind words of advice which I took to heart? He would go on to be the person who introduced me to my late wife, and he’s now a Facebook friend of mine. Thanks, Todd.