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Betsy. The great war is on but I hope ours is over. Please come home. Joe.

Maud Hart Lovelace

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Maud Hart Lovelace
Age: 87 †
Born: 1892
Born: April 25
Died: 1980
Died: March 11
Author
Writer
Mankato
Minnesota
Maud Palmer Hart
War
Home
Come
Great
Betsy
Please
Hope

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Isn't it mysterious to begin a new journal like this? I can run my fingers through the fresh clean pages but I cannot guess what the writing on them will be.
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You have two numbers in your age when you are ten. It's the beginning of growing up.
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When there are boys you have to worry about how you look, and whether they like you, and why they like another girl better, and whether they're going to ask you to something or other. It's a strain.
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Was life always like that? she wondered. A game of hide and seek in which you only occasionally found the person you wanted to be?
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It was June, and the world smelled of roses. The sunshine was like powdered gold over the grassy hillside.
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You might as well learn right now, you two, that the poorest guide you can have in life is what people will say.
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Come in early, so there'll be time to pop corn,' Mrs. Ray said. If she mentioned popping corn, they always came in early. So she usually mentioned it.
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In silence the three of them looked at the sunset and thought about God.
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And yet, even as she spoke, she knew that she did not wish to come back. not to stay, not to live. She loved the little yellow cottage more than she loved any place on earth. but she was through with it except in her memories.
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We'll just have to find more flowers in the spring. That's when they bloom, tra la.
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One strain could call up the quivering expectancy of Christmas Eve, childhood, joy and sadness, the lonely wonder of a star
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Good things come, but they're never perfect are they? You have to twist them into something perfect.
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She thought of the library, so shining white and new the rows and rows of unread books the bliss of unhurried sojourns there and of going out to a restaurant, alone, to eat.
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The silence in the room had width, height, depth, mass and substance.
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Then he kissed her. Betsy didn't believe in letting boys kiss you. She thought it was silly to be letting first this boy and then that one kiss you, when it didn't mean a thing. But it was wonderful when Joe Willard kissed her. And it did mean a thing.
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I cannot remember back to a year in which I did not consider myself to be a writer, and the younger I was the bigger that capital 'W.
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I'm finished with something, but I'm not beginning anything. That's wrong. When you finish something, you ought always to begin something new.
Maud Hart Lovelace