The Morses

Greetings in the name of King Grebein the Great and Hairy.

My friend Jessie is a picker of dead flowers. She told me to write that down. She was just unaware that it would be to anonynous internet readers. When we went to visit the Morses' plot of land two days ago, she contented herself with picking dead, dried flowers for who-knows-what.

I suppose I should clarify. I am spending Spring Break at the Morses. I have had a lovely time so far. Jessie and Mariah have taken it upon themselves to educate me in the finer points of old movies. Thus far I have managed to watch The Shop Around the Corner and You Can't Take It with You, both with Jimmy Stewart. My, that man is tall. And dreamy. I have also watched two episodes of Cranford (which my mother would like) and one episode of North and South, both by Elizabeth Gaskell. Jessie thinks she is a very good writer. I daresay you could enjoy them if you saw them. What else have I to watch before my time here has come to an end? Our Mutual Friend, Wives and Daughters, It Happened One Night, Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, Amazing Grace (but not so urgently), The Big Country, Emma, The Winslow Boy, Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, and I think that's all for now. I doubt I'll be able to watch them all, but I shall try my very best. Why? Because I'm a good girl.

Jessie made rice pudding, and it was very tasty. I recommend that everyone eat rice pudding. I should post the recipe, but not now. Perhaps later. Other than enjoying the fruits of someone else's labor, I haven't been doing much. I did finish my Japanese homework. I have plenty of other things to occupy my time with, such as my upcoming history paper on Japan's loss of identity during the Meiji era. If anyone has a remarkable knowledge on this period in history, let me know.

That's all for now. Ta-ta.

(Oh, by the way, I forgot to mention that I think I did quite well on my midterms. )

Sanna is a good, good girl

I'm not the kind of girl who, when she is good, she is very, very good, but when she is bad she is horrid. Although I do know a certain miss who might fit that description. In fact, I do believe she gave herself that description. I am a good girl because I have been very faithful in doing my homework. Like a saint, I sit at my desk each night, toiling away at my books. I have a terrible lot of books to read. Two weeks ago, I sat from 3:30 in the afternoon to 2:00 in the morning reading. I barely moved from the spot. Last week wasn't much better, but at least I felt as if the load was less. Perhaps I was more mentally prepared. Whatever the case, this week will be better. I only have two Japanese classes, as opposed to four, and my English teacher just sent me a note saying that tomorrow's class is canceled. She has the Behemoth of a Flu that has been going around. I myself have not had the pleasure of its acquaintance. I am as hardy as a Shetland pony. How's that for a simile?

What was I saying?

Oh, yes. You mustn't think I don't enjoy my classes. I do. I adore my History of the English Language class. My professor even lent me his Concise Anglo-Saxon Dictionary and his American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language, the latter being a monster of a book. It is about a hand wide and two hands tall. I'm tempted to buy one myself. There are many things I am tempted to buy. I would love to have an entire wardrobe from Gypsy Moon--but they're terribly expensive--and I would love to give everyone nosebleeds from my fabulous steampunk fashions. (What's steampunk, you say? Look it up, I say. That's the magic of Google.) But clothes matter little in the face of dictionaries. I must have them. Someday, somehow.

I went to a Writer's Retreat. I haven't told you before because I am telling you now, and that's good enough. It was lovely. It was held at the Barothy Lodge, about 2 hours by car from College. The weather forecast spoke forebodingly of snow, and snow it did. Thankfully, by the time the heavens opened to let down their gentle snow showers, we were all as snug as bugs in a rug (American colloquialism, anyone?), sitting in front of the fire and explaining what writing meant to us personally. Large snowflakes (lapphandskar for you Swedes) drifted outside the window, and the river meandered slugglishly through the valley, slowed in its movements by the cold.


The first night we had steak, salmon, sallad, and French bread. We made friends. We stayed in the lodge from Friday night to Sunday afternoon, and it was all a wonderful blur of walks in the snow, writer's workshops, snowball fights, hearty mealtimes, and the copious smatterings of sage wisdom dispensed by Professor Gary Schmidt and Professor Vande Kopple.

They are true gurus in the art.

What is winter without a snow-angel?
Professor Vande Kopple plans his attack in a snowball fight.

I am so glad I went. When I first saw the poster labeled Writer's Retreat, initial excitement carried my feet to the English department to put my name on the list. Then the excitement turned to doubt, fear even, that they would think my writing sample was not good enough to land me a spot at the retreat. Doubt made me consider not going at all, but I brushed it from my mind, as one should do with all such silly notions driven by fear. One must never fear. One must take heart and strike out, confident that everyone else is cowering.

All my life I have been alone in my writing endeavors. For a few brief instances, I had Natalie and Nathan in school, and we enjoyed the taste of words together. But after that, I was always surrounded by business people or science nerds (I'm looking at you, Tim) or rival world-dictators. (The latter I had to unfortunately eliminate.) It allowed me to practice my craft undisturbed, but I also had no one to share with on a regular basis. Therefore, I salute you, Professors. You have opened a world of possibility.

But now I must go shower. I went to the gym and walked for thirty minutes, ran for thirty, and lifted weights. I'm not very strong. But I will be.

Sanna