THE journey began for me one day as I sat in a creative writing class. The teacher handed out an excerpt from a diary written by a 6-year-old girl in Oregon at the turn of the century. Her name was Opal. She wrote of the potato plants in the field at night, and how the stars "did look kindness down upon them." At once I was intrigued. This little writer had a way of expressing herself like nothing else I'd ever read.

Months later, while browsing in a bookstore, I happened to come upon a last remaining copy of her complete diary. I bought it at once, delighted to have found so rare a copy.

Through the next several days, I devoured it, reading in every spare moment. Here was a writer with an acute sense of observation. She missed nothing, and was in love with all she saw. Her tenderness of heart and compassion for all living things gave her a deep sense of responsibility in caring for the animals living near her in the forests and logging camps of Oregon.

I felt I knew Opal's heart. As a child, I remember saying "good night" to all my cherished treasures in my room before going to sleep. I dared not leave anything out, lest its feelings be hurt. Although I've long since given up that habit, in discovering Opal I knew I'd found a kindred spirit.

I finished the last page of the diary, sorry that there was not more to read. Opal stayed on my mind, the music of her language ringing in my thoughts. As my husband Wayne and I took a walk one day not long after I'd finished the book, I told him of my discovery of Opal's diary, and what I had learned of her amazing life. As we talked, the idea was born to create a one-woman play based on Opal's life, with sections of the diary woven into it.

With the idea born, the journey began. I immersed myself in research and studied the controversy that surrounded her life. Some people did not believe she wrote the diary as a child. She was accused of writing it later as an adult and only claiming it was a work of her childhood. To add to the mystery, Opal claimed to be adopted. She believed her real parents were French royalty. Her family claimed she was lying and that Opal's story was nothing more than fantasy.

Not long after the diary was published in 1920, Opal was accused of literary fraud. People returned their copies of the diary and wanted their money back. Opal's spirit was crushed and she left the United States and fled to England.

But Opal stuck to her story to the end. In England, she lived alone in a low-rent tenement house, spending what little money she had on books. In 1948, she was discovered rummaging through the bombed-out rubble of buildings, looking for books. Her neighbors called the city authorities, and Opal was committed to a mental hospital in Napsbury where she lived until she died on February 16, 1992. She was 94 years old.

One of the most important steps in the creation of my play was traveling to Oregon and visiting the area where Opal had lived. She grew up in several different logging camps in the Cottage Grove area near Eugene. If I was to know Opal, I had to go there and stand beneath the Douglas firs and walk through the forests that she loved so well.

The search for Opal began in a library at the University of Oregon in Eugene. A phone call to the curator of rare collections in the university library led me to 3 special boxes containing some of Opal's treasures.

I will never forget the day I walked into the library and opened the first box. Inside were several books that had been given to Opal as a child. Inside the first book I opened was a bird wing carefully pressed between the pages. I asked the curator if he had known it was there. He hadn't. I felt as though Opal had left it there for me to discover.

Besides the children's books, the boxes contained college notes, personal letters, Opal's short stories, and family photos. Touching Opal's personal belongings made me feel I was discovering the keys to an authentic portrayal of her life and work.

While in Oregon, I was privileged to meet people who knew Opal. People's stories and opinions of her were varied. Some said she was a fake, as though every word and gesture was practiced. Others remembered her as sweet and honest, incapable of lying about anything. One of her relatives told me that Opal found it difficult to adjust to her mother's death. Mrs. Whiteley died while Opal was in college in Eugene. Through the years, Opal frequently had nightmares and called out for her mother in the night.

One of my favorite stories was one told by Earl Stewart, a childhood friend of Opal's. He said that Opal had been ill with bronchitis and couldn't speak. When she was feeling better, Opal had dinner at the home of Earl's uncle. She was still whispering, even though she didn't need to. During the course of the dinner, she would laugh, but not speak. Then, after drinking a glass of juice mixed with alcohol, she was cured instantly and found her voice again.

I love that story. The actress in me admires Opal's love for the dramatic.

Thanks to the help of a friend of mine, Gerry Trail, who was living near Cottage Grove at the time, I traveled from one end of Oregon to the other, asking questions, visiting libraries, historical societies, and meeting people who had known Opal.

One happy afternoon was spent walking all over the property and through the house once belonging to Opal's grandparents. On this property, I found the "singing creek where the willows grow." I took my shoes off and climbed down into the creek, so happy to be where Opal once played with Brave Horatius and Thomas Chatterton Jupiter Zeus.

On that same day, we found the one-room schoolhouse where Opal reluctantly attended. I found a corner of the room and wondered if this was the one where Opal stood with her face to the wall and listened to the "more big girls outside the window talking what they want."

One thrilling discovery occurred at the Oregon Historical Society in Portland. When I explained to the librarian that I was looking for anything on Opal Whiteley, he went to a back room and came back holding a cassette tape. "You might be interested in this," he said. "It's a taped interview of Opal made in 1978 in the hospital in England."

I could hardly believe my good fortune. For over and hour, I listened to the voice of the woman I was so eager to know. It was quite a discovery. What I heard was the voice of a woman fully convinced of her royal lineage and her unjust hospitalization. And at the age of 81, she was still longing to write books for children. She still had a story to tell and longed to be heard.

I have spoken to many people who knew Opal. Some are convinced that her claim to be the daughter of French naturalist Henri d'Orleans is absolutely true. Others believe she made it all up, the product of schizophrenic dementia.

Was Opal who she claimed to be? Was the childhood diary a fraud, written by an adult hungry for publicity, or was it simply the genius of a disturbed young girl?

To me, it's not important to solve the mystery. No matter where she came from, she has given us a beautiful diary, full of wonder and joy in the created world around us. Regardless of who she was or when she wrote it, the childlike voice ringing from the pages of her diary remind us to notice all that is around us and to take joy in it.

For me, the story of Opal that I had to tell in my play was the one I saw in the diary. To determine how I should structure my play, I read and re-read the diary, choosing the animals I would include to help tell the story, and finding the moments in her diary that held the most drama and conflict.

The process took four years. Through rehearsals, re-writes, and performances — and with the invaluable help of my director, Robert Kiefer — the play found its finished form. I determined to focus on the portions of the diary that reveal Opal's heart and wisdom, and allow the audience to decide if she was real or a fake.

Every time I give a performance of my play, people come to me afterwards and ask where they can find a copy of the complete diary. That is the reason I have published again the original diary that was first published in 1920 by Ellery Sedgwick and the Atlantic Monthly. Here is an accurate reproduction of the diary, including a foreward by Opal, and one by Mr. Sedgwick.

When I read Opal's diary for the first time, I was deeply moved by her indomitable spirit even in the face of great suffering. As a child, she refused to give in to despair. Somehow, she was able to maintain her joy and amazement at the wonders of creation around her. Though life was hard, God was good, and in the midst of heartache, she gave thanks every day in her cathedral under the fir trees.

Opal is an inspiration to me. Just as Opal stood in awe and wonder at the beauty of the world around her, I too stand in wonder. And just as Opal felt "joy feels from her toes to her curls," I too feel joy in the privilege of portraying this woman in all her failures and triumphs.

Nan Gurley
April 12, 1995