French Notes

It's 1935 and two young women are sitting in a classroom on a beautiful Spring day. They are both lovely to look at... one dark and the other fair, but very different in more than just appearances.



Virginia, sitting at the front of the class, is diligently and intensely taking notes, as the teacher gives the day's lesson.

As her pencil quickly fills the page in her neat hand, she mentally goes down the list of errands she needs to run before heading to her study group this afternoon... the library to pick up the extra credit reading for her Lit class, the Student Hall to sign up for the new Editorial Committee, the drug store. After study group, she will sit down and pen a letter to her mother.


In the back corner of the room, near the window is where Katherine is sitting. As she stares out of the window, she's thinking about a picnic under an oak tree. It's such a beautiful day. The sun is shining and wispy clouds slowly make their way across the sky. She can almost smell the fresh green grass and hear the laughter of her friends.

As the teacher begins the next chapter, Katherine is brought back to the present. Glancing at the clock on the wall, she sighs. She looks over at the boy next to her and scribbles a note in her book. She winks at him as she slides the book to the edge of her desk so that he can read it.

But soon, the drone of the teacher's voice and the ticking of the clock are gone and she's back, sitting on an old blanket under the oak tree, feeling the breeze ruffle her hair.


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I have a hard time finding French books around here for a decent price, so when I saw that Wanda had some in her shop, I snatched them up as fast as I could. When they arrived on my doorstep I was so pleasantly surprised to find all of the names, scribbles and drawings in the books, as well as, the notes tucked inside. As I turned the pages, I saw both Virginia and Katherine sitting in their French class that day.

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Now to fill you in on the "bad mama vs. good mama" struggle. They were still at it, debating back and forth with me on what to do about that pretty velvet ribbon, when the boy himself found out about the whole thing. Needless to say, he has hidden the shirt and told me I could no longer do his laundry. Ha! How long do you think that will really last? Not long, I say.