9/20/1899
My Dearest Leah,
They ripped you out of my arms two days ago when you were just nine months old. I will never get to see you grow up for I will be dead in a few months. I will never get a chance to know you nor you me. I'm sure my mother will tell you stories about me, but it wouldn't be the same; therefore, I begin writing this journal on my first day in this death hole so when you're old enough to understand, you will be able to read my words, my love for you.
I think you should know everything, beginning, middle, and the horrible end if my story, our story. I, Clara Grace McArthur Thomas, was born on April 20, 1881 in Good Ground, Long Island*. When I was 12, my family moved to Manhattan when my father was offered a job with the Sun. For the next four years, I lived the life of a normal middle class girl; playing with my friends, going to school, trying to keep my little sister out of trouble, helping with the chores, until I meet Ian Thomas.
I fell in love with Ian, your father, on the first day I met him. I loved everything about him; his looks, how he would help anyone in need, the way he would write me letters everyday even if he had seen me that day, and most of all the way he sang. I remember when you were just a week old; the only way we could get you to sleep was if Ian rocked you in Papa's chair singing 'You Are My Sunshine.' I will always picture that scene whenever I think of you and your father.
We were married shortly after. It was a beautiful wedding. All of our friends and family were there. Your father said I looked like a princess in my wedding gown. It was long and flowing with lace trim. My hair was done up in a French twist with baby's breath through out it.
As you can guess, you, Leah Erin Thomas, came as a blessing into our lives. You were our beautiful little angel. You were so tiny and perfect in every way. Everything about our lives way perfect for the first five months of our lives.
You and I had to go lie with my mother when you were five months old because your father was…
"What do you think your doing?"
**
(*)-There is no longer a place in Long Island called Good Ground. Thanks to my friend's great-great grandfather, the name was changed when he got pissed off at some people in NYC. It is now called Hampton Bays.
My Dearest Leah,
They ripped you out of my arms two days ago when you were just nine months old. I will never get to see you grow up for I will be dead in a few months. I will never get a chance to know you nor you me. I'm sure my mother will tell you stories about me, but it wouldn't be the same; therefore, I begin writing this journal on my first day in this death hole so when you're old enough to understand, you will be able to read my words, my love for you.
I think you should know everything, beginning, middle, and the horrible end if my story, our story. I, Clara Grace McArthur Thomas, was born on April 20, 1881 in Good Ground, Long Island*. When I was 12, my family moved to Manhattan when my father was offered a job with the Sun. For the next four years, I lived the life of a normal middle class girl; playing with my friends, going to school, trying to keep my little sister out of trouble, helping with the chores, until I meet Ian Thomas.
I fell in love with Ian, your father, on the first day I met him. I loved everything about him; his looks, how he would help anyone in need, the way he would write me letters everyday even if he had seen me that day, and most of all the way he sang. I remember when you were just a week old; the only way we could get you to sleep was if Ian rocked you in Papa's chair singing 'You Are My Sunshine.' I will always picture that scene whenever I think of you and your father.
We were married shortly after. It was a beautiful wedding. All of our friends and family were there. Your father said I looked like a princess in my wedding gown. It was long and flowing with lace trim. My hair was done up in a French twist with baby's breath through out it.
As you can guess, you, Leah Erin Thomas, came as a blessing into our lives. You were our beautiful little angel. You were so tiny and perfect in every way. Everything about our lives way perfect for the first five months of our lives.
You and I had to go lie with my mother when you were five months old because your father was…
"What do you think your doing?"
**
(*)-There is no longer a place in Long Island called Good Ground. Thanks to my friend's great-great grandfather, the name was changed when he got pissed off at some people in NYC. It is now called Hampton Bays.