August 25, 2009
Dear Ms. Potter,
I hardly know how to begin a letter to you. I don’t admire many people the way I esteem you; neither do I feel inspired by anyone who has already died, except maybe a few saints, my own relatives, and Jesus. And by living gratefully, I do try to pay homage to all women who have written and mothered and found joy in daily life and in the earth of their gardens. And I try to honor women like you—headstrong, determined, lovers of the earth and all that lives there.
I suppose we have very little in common. You were never a mother, and I married young. I value community and a full but simple life, and I believe your life was less peopled, though full. I am American, though I lived most of my life overseas. I have never made any real money from writing, so I do not have any resources to be a philanthropist like you. I cannot draw small animals. I do not really like touching small animals, including rabbits, and I never filled my room with leaves and sticks and small woodland creatures as a girl, as you did.
To tell you the absolute truth, and I hope you don’t mind—I don’t really read your picture books very often. I enjoy looking at your sketches, including the beautiful pictures of fungi. I love your illustrations, those with flowers, gardens, and especially geraniums (though it’s ghastly the way Peter has been marketed, I’m sorry to tell you—he nibbles his carrot on all sorts of places: baby blankets, silverware, cups, cards, probably even on diaper, or nappy, pails). But your books are a little dense these days even for my oldest, Merry, and they are sometimes frightening, as when Jemima Puddleduck’s eggs are eaten by the fox.
But I greatly admire your frank handling of farm and country life, and the girls think it’s very interesting that Peter Rabbit’s father was baked into a pie by Mrs. McGregor. Just today at the lunch table we were discussing the source of our ham—Merry thought maybe the pig just lived a long life, died from natural causes, and then we ate him—but I put her right. Maybe she will be a vegetarian. I was for a while, but then my love of meat convinced me to try to be a responsible eater—only animals who have been happy and healthy appear on our plates. I try to eat local food, conserve the earth, and. . .but this rather boring all in all and I’d much rather tell you about my friend the robin who keeps me company while I garden in the spring, who jumps down the rows, cocking his head and thanking me for fresh worms. At times like these, when I feel hidden from the rest of the world, with my hands in soil, quieting myself with things so other than myself—then I feel most at peace. This is one reason I admire you, a naturalist, so much, though I, being scatterbrained, will never be a true naturalist myself.
I love to picture you in your farm house, drinking tea and organizing important matters of property, discussing farm details with your husband, and adjusting an outfit for a mouse or a duck. It must be nice to belong to a place so completely, to love that place, and then to leave it to a country who will love it. We moved so often, and though I treasure the diverse experiences I enjoyed, I often longed to belong somewhere. I think you would like the country around the little town where we live now. It reminds me a little of England, though it’s heavily wooded and the hills are quite close together. We barely have a level space even for our garden.
Before I close, I do want to tell you that our last child is named Beatrix, after you, Ms. Potter. My husband and I both thought of your name, independently and without discussion: “Do you know what we should call her [the new baby]?” I shouted to the next room, my hands clasped on top of my pregnant belly. “How about Beatrix?” my husband called back, and since that was just the name I was going to suggest, we felt it was a sign.
Must get the girls to sleep now! It’s been a busy day and the night is finally cooling. Thank you so much for your time, Ms. Potter. I am very
Admiringly Yours,
Forsythia Fern
