Thursday Th(ink)s - January 29, 2026: The Envelope, Please!

bronwynklane
Jan 29
3 min read

Here it is—Thursday again.

Thursday reminds me of a set of drawers waiting to be opened, with Sunday being the top

drawer. Thursday is the fifth drawer down. Not the bottom, not the top tier either. It’s the

thoughtful drawer—the one that may hold something brand new… or something long

remembered. You never quite know what Thursday will offer.

This week, it offered me my past, beautifully wrapped—in a book.

As a child, when the Scholastic Book Fair came to our small farm school, I rejoiced with

exceeding great joy (almost biblical!). My folks were not sophisticated by any means; instead,

they had a quiet, steady understanding of the good things in life. Good and careful care. And

when the book fair came to town, there was money in my lunch kit to go shopping. One book.

That was enough.

Now, I am the grown woman taking my grandchildren to the fair.

The book fair.

And it was this week.

Three envelopes were filled with twenty dollars each, every child’s name written on the outside,

with instructions to put it in your pocket until it was time to pay. We walked down the sidewalk

and entered a library repurposed for the week—a shopping sanctuary. Bright covers shouting for

attention. Real money hidden in your pocket. The careful choosing. The learning of restraint (not

that one; look at this one). The love of choice (yes, this one is for you). The delight of ownership

(it’s yours, sweetheart; hold it tight as we walk home).

My heart swells watching them shop.

So serious.

So slow.

So sanctified.

And I remember: My book!

I walk them home, kiss them goodbye, and drive the fifty minutes back to my house, my being

assaulted by memories of a snowy day when a ten-year-old farm girl knew ten dollars was

tucked in her lunch kit and the Scholastic Book Fair had come to town. My tummy burned with

anticipation. The whole class marched down a dingy hallway to the sanctum—the library—and

there they were: rows and rows of books. For Sale!

And one of them was mine.

Home again, I hurry to my office, where my collection of children’s books—my friends—stand

sentinel around my writing table, looking over my shoulder, gently loving my words and whispering me stories. I search the shelves for the book that once gave me a tummy ache of

pleasure. In fact, it still does.

There it is.

Paperback.

Love-worn.

Beautiful.

Heidi.

Inside the cover I see my name, my address, my phone number, and in brackets, a plea: please

return.

It’s as if I knew that things I love could be lost, taken, misplaced—and yet still hoped for return.

Is this true?

I’m still learning.

What I do know is this: childhood does not return. But joy does, gratitude does, and memory

does. Which is why I put twenty dollars in an envelope and take my three wee grandchildren into

the room where we all get tummy aches of pleasure.

Big Brains:

“What a blessing it is to love books as I love them; to be able to converse with the dead, and to live amidst the unreal!” Thomas Babington Macaulay

Old Souls: “I am fond of books, and of having them about me; they are my friends. I like to see them lying about, ready to be taken up, and I care more for the thoughts they contain than for their outward appearance.” George MacDonald