Linnea Rain Lentfer, 2016 Level 1, Honorable Mention

Dear Marjorie Rawlings,

All through my childhood I’ve struggled with change. One of my earliest memories is wailing as my father cut down a cottonwood shading the house and, later, sobbing as machinery tore a trench to connect our home to running water. As hard as the physical changes have been, I’ve struggled even more with the changes in my own body.

A few months ago, as I watched my father wrestle with the young neighbor boy, I was pulled back to my own wrestling days. I laughed as they rolled around in the meadow but part of me wished I was back in the toddler’s place, giggling, squirming to free myself from Papa’s grip. I wished everything could stop changing. I wish to be frozen in familiarity until I was ready to move on.

Then I read The Yearling.

The first words grabbed me and lifted me to Baxter’s Island. Surrounded by the April day, I ran with Jody, as carefree as the boy laughing in my father’s arms. As Jody began to grow, I became frustrated. Why couldn’t, even a story, hold on to youth? I continued reading, braced for the inevitable changes. Soon, despite my frustration, I was pulled back into the story; hunting, growing, and learning along with Jody. When I turned the last page, I realized my mistake.

My wrestling memories belonged to a fawn who had grown into a yearling. That yearling would grow into a doe, perhaps watching her own offspring play in the meadow. I was on a wheel of life, constantly rolling through seasons of change. It only goes one way. I had been facing the wrong direction.

Thank you for your words,

Linnea Rain Lentfer