It is my birthday, or near enough—I curse myself each day for neglecting diligence with the calendar. My diary entries well could be off by several days, or perhaps a week, though I hope they are at least consistent with each other. Since today is bright and promising with blue skies and a warm breeze, I choose to believe my birthday is this fine day. I allowed myself a cry. Tomorrow I shall not.
I indulged in something special and cooked an extra half portion of beefsteak and johnnycake. I long for milk and eggs, but made do with water in the cornmeal. I even managed to coax a sprinkling of pepper from Papa’s grinder, which I thought had been emptied sometime before.
It is days such as this I wish I had taken up a musical instrument. Mama was the musical one in the family. The rest of us can carry a tune well enough, but she played her spinet for church meetings and often at night. It was a lovely sound and now that I write this I find myself longing for another good cry.
I am sorry, Mama. I should have not been so stubborn, should not have been the girl who wanted to be out in the fields with Papa instead of in the house with you. I should have said, “Yes, ma’am, a thousand times yes, I will learn to play the spinet, but only if you will teach me.”
I say this to you now, but other than the brief sunshine and a raven sawtoothing away from here—oh luckiest of birds!—I am alone. No one hears me when I cry or sing.
Since my birthday is in late November, the twenty-second, to be precise, that means many months of winter ahead. I pour hot water in the last of Mama’s teacups and look at the pretty blue flowers until it is too dark to see them. Happy Birthday, Janette.