Charles Burchfield, Journals , March 30, 1938

Last night I wrote this self-exhortation in my sketch notes “Have you grown so spiritually dead that you failed to make and notes of the strange and beautiful moonrise at dawn-light in the morning of Mar. 28”- And indeed I am ashamed that that event found me dull & stupid.

This window to the east is proving a fine thing. The other morning the fire siren awoke me at 3 AM and far to the east I saw the hideous red glow- hideous because I knew (it was raining) that this was no grass fire. (Geo. Marcha told me one this morning it was a house and garage; the family got out, but lost everything.)

I digress - this window is a release. That beautiful moonrise showing the last crescent of the moon, with a faint dawn-light low against the horizon - takes place every month, and barring clouded weather is there to be seen; yet it is years since I have seen such a thing.

After the rain yesterday, the sun comes out through the misty clouds warm and strong - all thoughts of painting scatter from my mind - the warmth & mildness are something too good to be true.

The hepaticas open full and are in all their glory today, breath-taking in their loveliness. Wide open to the sun they are the embodiment of all that is pure and beautiful and innocent. In some ways, their blooming is the supreme event of the year in nature.

A day or so ago, Sally same home and said her teacher scolded them sarcastically for not knowing in particular what crisis has arisen between the US & Mexico in the last few days, and in general for not reading the newspapers and listening to the radio news broadcasts. Such an attitude fills me with fury. It is bad enough that we adults waste our time & thought on such things, without having children do the same - and it is worse for them, for as long as possible, they should live in a child’s world; for only so can their soul grow & expand.

I told her to ask her teacher whether he knew that hepaticas were in bloom, and to tell him that their blooming was of far greater importance to a child than all the crises in the world.

Geo. Marcha here, digging around the apple trees, fixing the front lawn etc. I puttered around, trimming the hedge, and just finding all the excuses I could to wander back and forth thru the yard. Blue-birds could be heard all day and often we saw them in the tree-tops, making short flights up in the air for stray insects.

Arthur decided he would make a garden up back of the pavilion, and spent most of the day there, digging away the turf with undiminishing enthusiasm. It does me good to know that his instincts are healthy and right. A boy digging & sweating over a garden is a joy to behold.

Tonight, the sky is shrouded in a rain-gloom - sounds are intimate - the piping of hylas, the shouts of children, church bells with their sadly nostalgic tolling; a distant train; the peculiar muffled clatter of a bowling alley, passing cars- it is all agonizing.

Charles E. Burchfield, Journals, March 30, 1938