My sketchbook has virtually become my diary. A fine winter day with a clear sky. A walk country wards under the half moon near midnight. It was but a fleeting glimpse of the grandeur of nature at night.
Thoughts (in bed) Dec. 26—
Oh, the agony of longing for what is irrevocably past – I unpacked some of the pictures that were sent down this evening...
Due to Vi & Art’s company, added to Mart & Hanks and the grandchildren, we had a pleasant Christmas Season, which we all enjoyed –
Cold—sunny—scarcely a trace of snow—to city line for green vegetables and a ball-point pen for Bertha— All day on decorations—setting up tree, etc.—
Mid-P.M.—telephone call from Sally that she & Red & baby were getting a ride as far as Batavia, and would be able to spend part of Christmas day with us.
Evening—Mart & Hank down—trimming tree.
I wonder how much my diary shows my thoughts. Very little I am sure...
There is the old thrill of the outdoors...
I fell to brooding over all my artistic misdeeds of the past eight years – what sins I have committed-
Cold – light snow – In studio making corrections on the Christmas tree market – Late P.M. A & I in search of apples. To Blossom Cider Mill. They have none, but by chance an apple-dealer there with his truck
I finished reading “The Story of an African Farm” by Olive Schreiner tonight and sat for some time in such an ecstatic reveny as it is rarely my lot to enjoy. A grand book!
Working on the drawings. Sent today.