The Secret Garden

I have a tendency, when life feels stressful or out of control, to return to books I know and love. Right now that book is The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett. I remember the first time I heard about this book. I was in the sixth grade. A friend told me about it. Her mother had recommended it to her. I think it was the first “classic” piece of literature I’d ever read, though I didn’t know it at the time. I only knew that Mary and Dickon and Colin and Martha captured my imagination—and probably fueled my love for all things British!

Years have passed since I’ve read through the book, though I can’t count the number of times I lived in its pages growing up. It was the first book I bought for my daughter—the hardcover version with the Tasha Tudor illustrations, as a present on her first Christmas. She was nine months old. She’s twenty now and I don’t think she’s read it yet! Sigh. But it’s still there. Waiting. For her—or for my future granddaughters. Doesn’t matter which. I’ll just enjoy sharing the story and hoping one comes to love it as much as I do.