I had an unexpected separation from my computer. A part of it self-destructed a week and a half ago. It was sad, for both of us . . .
Having been away for awhile, I feel all at bits and pieces, having lost the thread of my blog thoughts.
I did, though, finish Philippa Pearce's non-spooky stories. I decided to wait before proceeding with the spooky ones, for one reason: The non-spooky stories scared the bejeeus out of me. In every story Pearce waltzes her children (her character children) right up to the edge of danger. Right up to the point where my stomach starts to seize and my breath leaves. I am guessing most readers would not have that reaction (I am a full-fledged weenie) as the dangers are really just ordinary ones, the typical things that kids do without thought, but which adults know could go terribly awry. She grants her characters that respect, though, letting them stumble their way across the sharp, jagged landscape of the world. She does not save them from what they must experience.
I should make clear, though (for other weenies) that none of her children come to actual harm. All exit their particular story safe and intact. What they do not escape is the dawning realization that they are mortal, and that their own actions can bring about destruction. No small cheese, that.
Pearce accomplishes all of this masterfully, with a quiet, subtle touch. I, trying the same thing, would have used a sledge hammer. Sad.
On another matter, I have not seen the baby turtle again. Not that I expected to. But I am careful where I step now when I pass that strip of woods, knowing what could be underfoot.