My youngest child, who was the audience for this fourth read of LITTLE HOUSE ON THE PRAIRIE, struggles, frequently, between what is real and what is fiction, in stories.
Laura Ingalls Wilder's books particularly confuse her; she doesn't understand how a woman in her 60s could possibly be narrating the stories from a young girl's perspective.
She asked me some interesting questions this time: Do you think that Laura asked her family members what their memories were, or were they just her memories? Do you think she really remembered all of it, or did she fill in the parts that she forgot? Do you think it's all true?
I thought these were excellent questions, and ones we could wonder of many memoirists: Did all of it happen? Was it just your perspective? Was it all true?
I couldn't really answer my daughter's questions, but I did ask her this: Did you feel as though little Laura was a reliable narrator, and did you feel that her story told her truth? My daughter didn't hesitate to answer: “Absolutely.”
This is Laura's story, well, one of her stories. One that begins in the late winter/early spring of 1873, when Mary is 8, Laura is 6, and Carrie is 2. It's the year when Pa gets restless, because he can now hear “the ringing thud of an ax” which wasn't his own, on nearby farms in Wisconsin.
So, off they head, to Kansas Territory. . . and, as they leave their beloved little house in the big woods, Laura writes, “So they all went away from the little log house. The shutters were over the windows, so the little house could not see them go.”
Lines like these, when Laura is able to personify objects and animals around her with such childlike wonder, remind me how well she does do what my daughter wondered: she remembers it, as she felt it, when she was a child.
Young Laura's joys, fears, and her naughty impulses, (or, at least naughty, when compared to her perpetually good sister Mary's impulses), are so delightful and so very real.
Not only did Ms. Wilder share with us the gorgeous, open spaces of an unpolluted and sparsely populated prairie; she shared with us her truth, of how she felt and what she wanted.
This time around, I especially liked this little exchange between 6-year-old Laura and her mother:
“Why don't you like Indians, Ma? Laura asked, and she caught a drip of molasses with her tongue.
“I just don't like them; and don't lick your fingers, Laura,” said Ma.
“This is Indian country, isn't it?” Laura said. “What did we come to their country for, if you don't like them?”
Too true, Laura. I know that you and your father both had the heart, and the sense of adventure, to imagine something bigger and better for this beautiful country than the exclusion of the original members of it.
This was my fourth read of this classic, and it won't be my last. Somehow, it got even better.