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Show Chapter One Papa thought this journal would be a good idea so I will try to make him happy and do what he says. He knows I can't get up and do what I really want to do. He said writing in a journal would help pass the time. As usual, he's right. I've already spent half an hour writing just this much. My fingers don't work the way they used to. And my legs don't work at all, so here I sit. What do you write in a journal? Right now there is very little to say as I spend most of my time sitting out here in the yard. I can't see much from here--just Mama's window and she peeks out at me now and then. I can see the wagons go by and a horse once in a while, but mostly I sit here near Mama's vegetables feeling more like one of them than a young lady of twelve who will soon be out in the world, making my fortune and seeing the sights. If I can't write much about every day, I suppose I should try to write about what I can remember. Before the fever, I could run and jump good as any boy. When I was seven I ran clear down the road to meet Papa and the wagon, bringing the fat lady for a visit . . . "Here it comes," Nettie whooped. "Mama, here it comes I" And she erupted into the air, running back around the house, past the garden, crowded with corn, beets, and potatoes, through the back door. "Mama, they're coming! Papa and the fat lady!" Nettie circled the table in the kitchen at a run, stopped ever so briefly to catch her mother's eye to be sure she had heard, then ran out the kitchen and the |
