I've always liked multiples of seven.

Book Fourteen: The Singing Creek Where the Willows Grow, by Benjamin Hoff. 371pp

According to this website's page on Opal's mental health, and I believe Elbert Bede remarked on this too, the fact that Opal was obsessed with numbers and counting things is somewhat significant in her mental issues. I noticed that this time reading the book more than I ever did before. She counts everything or wants to count everything, and determines her route by how many stumps or fenceposts or trees she passes. Not to mention her potato choir.

Anyway, as always, the book is both a breath of fresh air and an emotional battering-ram. I'm not sure what else there is to say about it, really.

So, I'll just share this part of the story that has always confused the living daylights out of me. Takes place while Opal is walking home in a thunderstorm.

We were just a-going to start down the path that does lead to our house, when we did hear a calling. It was a mournful sound. I followed it after. Once I did have thinks it came from a root. And then it was like it did come from a big tree. It was a pain voice, like someone calling someone to come. Then it was like a lost voice, trying to find its way among the ferns. It was not a word voice; it was just a voice without words.

I did have wonders what voice it was. I folllowed after its queer callings. Brave Horatius followed after me. He would stop, and look queer puzzle-looks at nowhere. We did go on.

The voice sound came again. Then it was like a voice lost from the person it did belong to. It was a clear, low cry, like a ripple of grey ribbon. We were more near to it. We followed it around a big tree. There it was, come from the man on the stump between that tree and the big tree that was beyond it. The man, he did throw back his head, and the voice came out his throat and went to nowhere. It came again like little bits of queer green fire-flame. And then it was low, and again like a ripple of grey ribbon.

As it was so, he did turn his face about—it was the face of the husband of Sadie McKibben. But the look, the look in his eyes, was a queer, wild look that looked looks at nowhere.

What does that mean to you? I'm still having trouble with it, even now that I've found out what They believe it was she's speaking of.

Next book up will need to be something short, sweet, and less emotionally demanding. I think I know just the one.

(no subject)

Book Fifteen: Betsy-Tacy, by Maud Hart Lovelace. 113pp

This was a nice break for my tired brain—a lighterweight dip into the life of another lively, imaginative girl and her best friend. It took all of half an hour to read, and it was very pleasant.

Book Sixteen: Betsy-Tacy and Tib, 128pp

Although I like Betsy-Tacy, this one has always been a step up in my mind. I loved the antics of the three girls together better than just the two—partially because Tib's practicality reminded me of many of my own childhood friendships, where I was like Betsy and came up with all the ideas (frequently regarded as strange or crazy) and everyone else either followed along (like Tacy) or was annoying practical (like Tib).



I decided to re-read these because I got a couple of the books where Betsy is older from the library - which I've never read. Thought it would be fun to refresh the first four in my mind. Unfortunately, the library only has two of the older Betsy volumes, and they're not the next two chronologically. Oh well. I may not even like them. We'll see.

(no subject)

I forgot to mention the other day how I had a chair by the dryer so I could get down some jars of juice I had stored way up on the high shelf. While I was doing some other stuff, I had the cupboards open and didn't move the chair, so Spot decided to have a look at the washer and dryer. He can't jump up there without a chair, so he was curious.

Next thing I know, he's casually walking out of the kitchen with a ziploc bag of catnip in his mouth.

I had no idea it was in the cupboard at all.

(no subject)

So obsessive.

I was telling Ginny about my colour sequence fetish in my 1996 diary and how freaked out I got if I accidentally used the wrong colour. One page was awash with three different green pens in perfect order.

Then there was ( this. )