The Waltons and its characters are property of Earl Hamner, Jr., and all legal copyright holders. This story is not intended to infringe upon the rights of any copyright holder.
September 9, 1964 I feel funny doing this. Corabeth is the creative one, not me. But I told her I’d try, so here I am--staring at this blank piece of paper. I suppose I should explain why I’m writing this in the first place. See, Dr. Marshall encouraged Corabeth to start keeping a journal again--she hadn’t kept one since she was a girl. Well, Corabeth took to it with a fury. Before you could say Doe Hill, she’d filled an entire notebook with her thoughts and memories. Every day, she spends an hour at that kitchen table, scribbling with more intensity than John Boy Walton could ever have wished for. And every night, as we lay in bed, she reads to me what she wrote that day. I tell you, I always knew Corabeth had a way with words, but I never thought I could be so caught up in anything the way I am in her stories. Well, they aren’t stories like you read in magazines. They’re real stories--from her life, how she feels about things, what scares her, what makes her laugh. Sometimes I tease her that it took almost thirty years for me to actually meet the person I married. But I guess what really makes me feel good is that she’s happy again. Not overly happy, but a Corabeth kind of happy. We still fight--had a great one just the other day over her not remembering to send in the reorder form for the propane tank. But that’s just me and Corabeth. I’d take a good fight with her over a polite chat with somebody else any day. So why am I writing all of this down? Because my wife asked me to. And when I read this to her, she’ll probably roll her eyes and say, “Mr. Godsey!” in that way she does. And then she’ll realize that I really wasn’t able to write too much, but at least I tried. Because I love her enough to make a complete ass of myself on paper. Then she’ll kiss me on the cheek and whisper, “Goodnight.” And I’ll watch her as she falls asleep--no nightmares anymore. And then, when she’s finally asleep, I’ll kiss her on the forehead and say, “Goodnight, Corabeth.”
