I have saved a complete diary that I wrote in 1959, when I was 15 and 16. It's a humbling experience to read the words of younger me and to realize how little I cared about much beyond my immediate world. Every visitor, every verbal slight, every sighting of an attractive young man was recorded, but little else. I fought with my mother a lot yet later grew to adore her. When my kids were teenagers, I would sometimes reread pages to remind myself that young teens are really not yet mature, no matter how big and smart they are.