My sister messaged me over the weekend and said she was sending me a birthday gift, that it should arrive Monday, and to watch for it.
Yesterday was long (but not long enough for my work list), packed to the brim, and seasoned with a bit of stress, which is part of the bargain of working in twenty-first century journalism, I think, of which I am blessed, truly.
When the box arrived, Rebekah brought it up to me, and I gave it a nod of acknowledgment without stopping to do more.
When I was a little girl, my sister and I watched Miss Universe and Miss America pageants with our babysitters (the girls who were in seventh or eighth grade who stayed with us for an evening while our parents went out) because they were interested in them.
Sometimes, we would play-act these pageants, and the babysitter for the night would interview us. I remember one time the question was "Who is your favorite author?"
And without hesitation, I answered, "Ruth M. Arthur."
The babysitter paused. She had never heard of Ruth M. Arthur. And quite frankly, neither had I.
This was years before the internet. I had only read one book by Ruth M. Arthur, and I only knew what the jacket flap said about her (if anything).
But I loved that one book, A Candle in Her Room, to actual, literal pieces. And the love for that story inspired and fueled my desire to be a writer and an author.
Fast forward to modern times. I have since found other titles by Ruth M. Arthur. She had six children (a marvelous coincidence), and the stories she wrote grew up with her children.
This means, when they were young, she wrote stories for young children. By the late 1950s, she was writing young adult stories for girls before "young adult" was a genre - although I thought it was. In fact, I remember when "young adult" because a real term, and I was puzzled, thinking, "What's new about that?"
Many of Ruth M. Arthur's stories for girls had a Gothic mood and involved "time slips" - where the main character "slips" into another time by supernatural or inexplicable means.
From reading reviews and summaries of some of these books, my sense is that these teen girl protagonists are experiencing challenges or struggling against something, and that, through these time slips, they receive knowledge, encouragment, and resolution.
I found it interesting that she died in 1979, the year I graduated from high school and officially began my adult life.
Hold these last few thoughts.
Now I've had several of Ruth M. Arthur's books on my wish lists - but I've never bought one. Money is tight, and I am rather tight when it comes to that money. So I will buy a book, one day, someday, but not now.
You probably know where this story is heading.
But I'll bet you don't know all of it.
Yes, my sister's gift was a book by Ruth M. Arthur. It's called The Whistling Boy, and it has a synopsis so slowly paced, it would likely be rejected in today's market.
When her father remarries only one year after the death of her mother, Kirsty Newton tries to accept her new stepmother Lois, and to be affectionate and helpful toward her, but finds herself increasingly overcome by feelings of intense rage and sorrow. Bitterly resentful that Lois has achieved an emotional closeness with her undemonstrative father, something she herself has always longed for, and painfully reminded of her loss every time Lois speaks, Kirsty's efforts to suppress her feelings and behave decently lead to a frightening series of anxiety attacks.
When Kirsty is given the opportunity to go away for the summer, to stay on a farm in Norfolk and pick fruit, she jumps at the chance to escape her problems. Settling into her new routine at Old Manor Farm with the friendly and down-to-earth Dillons, Kirsty soon befriends Jake Meryon, the local doctor's son, and becomes caught up in a mystery involving a strange whistling ghost.
I read just a few pages last night. Faith, my calico, has cancer and gets clingy at bedtime and wants my full attention and eye contact, not a distracted stroking of her fur with one hand while I'm enjoying a story in the other.
But my sister just didn't find a hardcover book in excellent condition. In perfect Ruth M. Arthur time slip fashion, on a day when writing challenges piled up, I opened the book to find this:
