December 14, 1988.

I see miniature greek vases and urns, all ligned up on a little
wooden box.

Someone reads spelling words aloud. I write the spelling test
and so does Gerry Patterson,, a girl who was in my sister Edith's
class. I write: "Burkha, 21, 31 December, 1988."

As I lift my spelling sheet, all the miniature vases and urns
fall and break. I cry. I'm very disappointed.

Later, my son Frederik successfully glues them back together. I
am surprised as they were literally in a million pieces. He
brings them to school. They look new. At the end of the row of
urns and vases though, one of our plastic glasses with pink and
green fishes has been added to the collection.

Mrs. Lyman, my children's principal, is examining some of my
sewing with a critical eye.

My blue journal is stuck on my friend Jean's garage floor with
scotch tape. There are tons of other things in the garage like
Gilles' great grandfather's black leather rocking chair.

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