Page 47 of A Rancher's Love
Ginny shrugged. “Maybe. Don’t hold your breath. Anyway, Dusty is hiding in the barn. He refuses to come in the house because he failed a test, and now he thinks he’ll get kicked out of Grade Two, but even worse, that Dad might take away his riding privileges.”
Deb Stone made a face. “The kid is probably not wrong about that last one. What kind of test?” She eyed Ginny hard. “How come you know this, and why are you telling me?”
“Because I, as his beloved big sister, who is nearly eight years older, know all and see all.”
“Ginny. Spit it out without dramatizing it any further, if that’s possible,” her mother demanded.
“You’re no fun. Fine, Dusty was cranky on the bus ride home from school, so I asked him what was wrong, and he told me. The reason he failed was he was actually sitting in the hallway being disciplined when the teacher handed out the test.”
Their mother folded her arms over her chest. “You’re not making things better for your brother right now.”
Ginny held up a finger. “Ah, but here’s the part that neither the teacher nor Dusty will tell you. I happen to know Dusty got sent to sit in the hall because he told Jeremy Dane to stuff it and stop teasing Fern Fields about having a prosthetic arm. And when Jeremy made a rude gesture, Dusty sat on him. Which was probably really uncomfortable because Jeremy is lumpy like a bag full of rocks. Personally, I hope Dusty didn’t bruise himself.”
Deb pinched the bridge of her nose. “Thank you for that little bit of colour commentating.”
“Anyway. Rose and Tansy told me about that part, because Fern told them, so I told Dusty that I was sure you would understand he did the right thing, but if it came down to it, I would help him study for a makeup test. And I’m making peanut butter cookies so when he comes in, he has something to make him happy, okay?”
Her mom rose from behind the desk and came to offer her a hug. “That sounds fine. I guess I’ll put my boots on and go on a Dusty hunt.”
“Look for the nearest set of kittens. The last batch we found are in the south corner of the loft,” Ginny suggested as they headed back to the kitchen and her mom began layering on outdoor gear. “Mom? Whatdoyou write in your journal?”
Deb adjusted her toque and pulled on warm winter gloves. “Memories. Joys and sorrows. Dreams. Sometimes I write the most outlandish thing that I possibly can, just to make myself smile.”
“Something absolutely wild and outrageous like Dad taking over the accounting books?”
Her mother laughed. “So disrespectful. No, but I do sometimes try to imagine the future.”
“The immediate future includes the heavenly scent of peanut butter cookies wrapping around you and your beloved son when you return from your quest,” Ginny said, offering a dramatic bow.
“I love you, kiddo. Now let me go find your brother.”
It was only one memory.Ginny had seen the journal many times over the years, at least the red one on the right that was bumped and banged and a little worn. The second one was identical, only the shine on the cover was still pristine, and instead of red, the cover was sky blue.
Ginny’s favourite colour.
She traced her fingers over them both, and a knot grew in her throat as she thought back to all the times and places she’d seen her mom holding it. Curled up in a chair by the fire. Sitting on the porch swing. Hanging out in the hayloft, the journal spread in her lap as she either wrote or read back over well-worn pages.
Oh, dear God, Ginny was going to cry again. At least this time there was no one around to witness as she lifted the little piece of the past and cradled it carefully.
A sticky note that had lost all its stick fluttered to the bedspread beside Ginny’s hip.
All it said was2 of 3.
Ginny opened the red journal in the hopes there would be some further explanation. Another folded note addressed to her in her mother’s clear beautiful handwriting waited between the pages.
You’re always asking what I’m writing in my journal, so as your second present on this milestone birthday, I’m going to show you.
This is a loan, mind you. Some of what’s written in these pages is very personal, to me and to others, but I trust you to keep the things private that should remain that way. But I’m also trusting you to share what should be shared when and if appropriate.
I suppose it’s a bit old-fashioned and slightly misogynistic to automatically think you should someday become the family record keeper. That chore seems to typically fall to the women, but I never complained because it’s something I enjoy. I hope it’s something you do as well.
There are always questions, there are always thedo you remembermoments, and that’s part of why I journal. No one’s memory lasts forever, so putting things down on paper is a good way to look back.
Sometimes we do it to celebrate the good choices we’ve made. Sometimes we do it to see where we got on the wrong path, to make a course correction.
Either way, you don’t have to do this alone. I’ve done some of it before you, and I’ve done some of it for you (peek in your new journal and you’ll see what I mean.) And as the summer passes, I look forward to sitting on the deck with you, writing in our journals. Sharing our hopes and dreams and, as is inevitable with you involved, I’m sure there’ll be laughter.
I love you. Here’s to making memories.
