PublicBookshelf Book Club
Weekly tips on great novels to read.
Mornings are my favorite time of day, early morning before the world awakes. I can sit and watch the glow of a new day creep up above the horizon on the harbor, painting the sea in shades of red. When I was growing up, the morning was my time, when my parents were still asleep and the house belonged to me alone. It is Saturday morning, after Friday night number eight. As I sip my coffee, wrapped snugly in flannel against the chill, I am forced to conclude I've made a disaster of our last evening. For once lately, Amy and I are in full accord on that point.
My mind is still at sea over the happenings so before I explain myself, I'll do justice to this journal and devote a few lines to the other matters that occurred during the seven days just past, though they are without any startling revelations.
School continues with its small successes and travails. Don't think because my classroom happenings are not documented in this journal they are without interest. I have purposely omitted the doings of my school chums. To do them justice would require an increase of these pages ten-fold! Besides, I've attempted to restrict this journal to more personal matters. After all, I reluctantly promised Father Hammond to pour out my soul in this book, in hopes of attaining a purging of the inner grief he feels I continue to shelter. Give me a gold star for trying.