One of the books that I read repeatedly while growing up was "The Secret Garden". One of my favorite parts of the book is when the little girl, who was very city-fied and therefore ignorant in the ways of the country, finds her way into the garden and deduces, while scratching in the dirt, that the new spring growth would have a better chance if the old stems and detritus were cleared away. Later, when the lovely country boy, raised on the moor and surrounded with tamed animals, gets there, he is surprised to see that someone has done some work there, and she is proud of what she figured out.

Every year at this time, I re-enact the story in my front yard. Sadly, so far, no magical boy with a lovely British accent has stopped by to admire my work.

When I think about that book, certain scenes from it flit across my memory, as if they were part of my own life history. Such is the power of literature, and of repetition. Movies, which last 2 hours, rarely stay with me, but some books, which have been read over days, weeks, months and years, have organically become a part of me.

This entry was posted on Monday, March 01, 2004 at 4:16 PM. You can skip to the end and leave a response.