The February light is extraordinary when the sun is shining on the snow. It triggers a slippery memory of a book I read when I was about 10. I have looked for this book many times, but as I don't remember the whole title, I have little chance of ever finding it. The story is about a young girl who goes to live in the country with her aunt for one year. I don't remember why. What I remember most is that they are snowed in, and the descriptions of the snowy woods were beautiful. The title had "Winter" in it; that's all I remember. But every year, when the February sun lights up the woods, I have this pull to find that book.
One of our parishioners who attended the presentation I gave about keeping a bible journal brought me a journal that was written by a girl in Oregon. She was born sometime before the turn of the century, and lived until her 80's. She moved around a bit with her foster parents, going from one logging camp to another, writing her journal on little pieces of paper. One day a foster sister got mad at her and ripped up her journal into many tiny pieces. Years later, she had a chance to get it published, and painstakingly put it all back together. The recent edition was an adaptation done in 1984. The journal is Opal: The Journal of an Understanding Heart. Written by Opal Whiteley, adapted (into poetry form, without changing the writing)by Jane Boulton, published by Tioga Publishing Company.
I wonder why journals are so interesting? Often they are full of ordinary, everyday happenings, but I still read them avidly. And I love autobiographies, like Madelaine L'Engle's Summer of the Grandmother. And I wish, wish, wish, I had my Dad's daily jottings of the weather and the birds at his feeder. And why didn't my grandmothers write their stories? My father's mother, especially, had such a peculiar turn of phrase: when my Aunt was trying, unsuccessfully, to recover from the removal of a malignant brain tumor, Grandma wrote to her every day, "Any fuzz on your head, yet?" She called her "Dear girl", and sent an African violet blossom to her, squashed into a letter. But the funniest thing was that she signed the letters, your Mother, then her FULL signature!
One of my very favorite birthday presents from Lyra was a booklet of poems written and illustrated by 3-year old Lydia. Lyra had put them into a plastic report cover. Lydia wrote:
Now I have to do the dishes; I then plan to curl up with a novel about ancient Highlands clans that I am enjoying.
6:48 PM
It was a beautiful day; on all accounts. I sorted my papers, as I had hoped I would, putting them into new 3-ring binders. I fixed a skirt that had been waiting in my mending basket for several months. I ironed all BD's clothes for the week, and pressed my pleated skirts. And now I'm pooped!
pick me a blueberry.
Blueberry, blueberry
pick me a blueberry.
Blueberry, blueberry,
pick me a blueberry.
Don't pick a green berry,
Don't pick a red berry,
Pick a blue, blue, blueberry.
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