Reflections on Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House series and Anne of Green Gables

Several years ago, I decided to read my way through Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House books. It has been a lovely journey, full of cherished memories from my childhood and new discoveries. Wilder’s peculiar ability to make me want to run off to the Midwest and live on a claim shanty on the plains has not diminished as I grow older. There is something beautiful about the simplicity of living that resonates with my minimalistic tendencies. For instance, the scene where Laura tidies her marriage home is one of my favorites. She goes about putting everything in order and it is described as a “bright and shining little house.” She spreads “a bright red tablecloth” over her table and “the cloth had a beautiful border and made the table an ornament fit for anyone’s front room. In the corner between the window to the east and the window to the south was a small stand-table with an easy armchair at one side and a small rocker at the other. Above it suspended from the ceiling was a glass lamp with glittering pendants. That was the parlor part of the room, and when the copies of Scott’s and Tennyson’s poems were on the stand it would be complete. She would have some geraniums growing in cans on the windows soon and then it would be simply beautiful.”

That single red tablecloth, the hope of bright geraniums in the windows, and the certainty that two volumes of poetry will be just the thing to make your home complete – it really is perfect. There’s no clutter. No stacks of junk. When you have few things to treasure, everything you own is of great worth. I’m sure as a child this wasn’t the reason I was drawn to these books, but as an adult, I continually come back to it. When Laura declares to Manly that, “I have always lived in little houses. I like them,” it resonates with me.

As I finished reading the last three books in the series this month – Little Town on the Prairie, These Happy Golden Years, and The First Four Years, I found that though these books are good, they are not nearly as enchanting as the first six books in the series.

As the spirited little girl grows into a teenager and adult, it’s as though bits of Laura become erased until there’s nothing but a faint outline of her. Some of this is the result of what happens when characters grow up, but the genre doesn’t. Veiled in Victorian modesty, Laura’s courtship with Manly was almost comically unromantic. The most passion to be found in their engagement is when Laura returns home with a ring on her finger and Ma says,” Sometimes I think it is the horses you care for, more than their master.” To which Laura replies, “I couldn’t have one without the other” and “Laura knew they understood what she was too shy to say.”

As I was reading, I was struck by the many similarities between these books and Lucy Maud Montgomery’s Anne books. Montgomery has Tennyson, Wilder her folk songs, but they tell pretty much the same story of growth from girlhood to adulthood. While Montgomery writes with a humor that is utterly lacking in Wilder’s prose, Wilder takes the prize for realism. Want to know what happens when a twister hits your house or a freak snowstorm occurs when you’re out walking? It’s not pretty.

Though the writer’s methods vary, Anne and Laura essentially share the same fate as adult characters. Anne recedes into the background as the Anne series progresses and anecdotes of her plentiful offspring take center stage. Wilder tries to keep Laura at the forefront of the story, with rather disastrous results. The First Four Years was a bit of a shock. I kept asking myself, “what happened here?!” It wasn’t until I had finished reading it that I discovered that it was an unfinished draft, published long after Laura Ingalls Wilder’s death. Much like Harper Lee’s, Go Set a Watchman, one wonders if the publishing of this manuscript was a disservice to the legacy of the author.

What’s done is done though and the magic is almost quite gone in The First Four Years, which chronicles, at a rather brisk pace, Laura and Almanzo’s first four years of marriage. Strange incidents, like Mr. Boast offering to trade a horse for Laura and Almanzo’s baby, because they could have more children and his wife could have none, occur. Tragedy strikes over and over again - a burned down house, the loss of a baby, a crop that has failed three years in a row, and crushing debt. Gone are the days of music, laughter, star shine and violets. It’s as though Wilder is trying to prove that no matter how bright the flame of girlhood burns, there is nothing adulthood won’t bring your way that won’t attempt to extinguish it.

Both Montgomery and Wilder illustrate that when faced with the practicalities of married life, homes of their own, and babies, the dowdy, overworked housewife is waiting, just around the corner, to invade the optimistic girl of yore. Who has time to dream when there is a farm to take care of and children to bring up?

And, yet, I can’t see the adult Anne and Laura as failures of their childhood selves. I believe their success as characters rests not so much in what they became, as what they didn’t become. It is the absence of poor qualities that continues to distinguish them as valuable characters. For Anne, success meant not becoming a small-minded gossip and busybody. For Laura, success is avoiding mental breakdown and not becoming a wild, knife-wielding plainswoman (see book seven) that threatens to murder her husband in the night because he won’t take her back to civilization. Victory is not only being able to survive in a harsh environment, but also being able to see the beauty and poetry in it. Oh, and not killing your husband when he doggedly tells you there’s nowhere else for you to go. That is an accomplishment.

Anne retains her ability to dream and Laura retains her work ethic and pioneer spirit. These qualities enable Laura to not only survive, but also thrive in a harsh and unforgiving environment. In reading her story, I have felt my own “spirit rising for the struggle.”

It Was Me All Along

The New Year seemed like a good time to read a book about how one woman lost over 130 pounds.

I have never read a weight loss memoir, but Andie Mitchell’s story is just what I expected from the genre: pages of contemplations as to why one overeats; long, tedious descriptions of once loved fatty foods; a stint in counseling; self-obsession, over exercising, and the realization that there is more to life than a treadmill and calorie counting. It’s all here.

While I don’t think this was the author’s intent, I came away from this reading experience with a sense of just how selfish eating disorders can be. Like any addiction, an eating disorder means that someone is completely focused on himself or herself. They may not be happy, they may not be able to control it, but the world revolves around them and the foods they eat or don’t eat. It is sad not just for the person with the disorder, but for their friends and family.

Weight loss aside, the author’s journey embodies the self-absorption, lack of substance and direction that typifies her entire generation. She partied through high school and college, went to Europe for a semester to study film, graduated with no real plan, collected a bunch of student loan debt, has a hard-working mother (who no doubt has never had the luxury of going to Europe) that is willing to pay for her plastic surgery, and after a seven year relationship she decides she has outgrown her significant other and “fallen out of love” (big eye roll for that one). They break up, she moves away, and four years later they are engaged (that part is not in the book, but on her blog).

Her life isn’t about what she can give back to people or how she can do something important that will contribute to the well being of others. No, she is troubled by the need to “find” herself, express her creativity, and grow. To read her story is to read the egocentric motivations of an entire generation.

So, I didn’t love this memoir. I didn’t hate it either. I respect the author’s weight loss journey, even if I do find her to be lacking in substance. To endure the loss of a parent at such a young age and to be left alone so often would lead some people down far darker paths than obsessively eating cake, cereal, and donuts.

The Signature of All Things

I took a Flowering Plants class when I was in college. It was one of those science courses you sign up for because it looks easier than Analytical Chemistry and slightly less boring than The History and Philosophy of Science. I was asked to splice open plants and look at them under the microscope and I learned how to correctly dry, press, and preserve them. I was also required to collect and correctly identify fifty different flowers. My friends and I spent a lot of time that quarter pulling up random weed-like flowers from the side of the road and going on long hikes in the quest for ever more impressive specimens. I learned Latin names and can still remember some: Rosaceae, Ranunculaceae, Juglandaceae. I found a sort of ridiculous thrill in being able to use the Latin name for a flower or tree. Why call a Buttercup a Buttercup when it is so much more impressive and informative to call it Ranunculaceae? And the mystery of why I didn’t have more friends in college continues to deepen…

My experience in that class was a bit like my experience reading The Signature of All Things: tedious and sometimes boring, yet intellectually stimulating with its own brand of fun.

This novel tells the story of Alma Whittaker. Alma is born in 1800 and is the daughter of a botanical explorer turned botanical magnate, and a staunch Dutch mother with sharp intellectual abilities who teaches her daughter how to be rational, scientific, and a most tireless problem solver. Alma gains an adoptive sister who perplexes her and she falls in love with a man who simultaneously confounds and devastates her. The setting moves from England, various ships, America, Tahiti, and the Netherlands.

Science in the 1800's is fascinating: gas lamps and telescopes, balloonists and fearless botanical explorers - it was a regular carnival of discovery. Ever since reading The Age of Wonder, Richard Holmes’ magnificent treatise on science in the 18th and 19th centuries, I have had a special affinity for this time period and the beautiful sense of intellectual trailblazing that so many intrepid scientists and explorers experienced as they delved into science like never before. This is why, despite my incredible dislike for Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love (I believe I compared that reading experience to rolling around in sheets of fiberglass insulation), I astonished myself by purchasing this book and saying something along the lines of, “this actually looks good.” And it was good. Sort of.

One of the most satisfying things about this novel is that Gilbert centered it on a woman who defies all the stereotypes of a heroine. She is not beautiful. Men do not desire her. She does not live the conventional life of a wife and mother, nor does she gain fulfillment in the traditional sense. Yet she is successful, satisfied (more or less), and happy. Her sensual desires keep her from becoming stodgy, but there is very little romance in her character. Alma isn’t always likeable, but she is believable and well developed.

While I enjoyed reading this book, I imagine that many people will find it tiresome. Alma studies moss, which then becomes allegorical for her own life. Moss is resilient, moss is strong, moss is adaptable, moss isn’t sexy and it isn’t impressive or very interesting to most people, but it can be beautiful in its own way. Alma is moss and not everyone will have the patience for moss.

The Storm Sister

I was so excited to read this book that I actually ordered it from Amazon UK so I could read it months before the US release date in March. Perhaps the only logical conclusion to such feelings of excitement and anticipation is disappointment.

The Storm Sister is the second book in Lucinda Riley’s ambitious venture to write a seven book series that chronicles the adopted daughters of “Pa Salt.” After his death, each sister is given clues to go in search of her past. There is also a larger mystery as to what actually happened to Pa Salt, why he decided to adopt each of the sisters, and who he really was. Also, all clues point to the fact that Pa Salt isn't really dead...

I found Ally’s story interesting, but ultimately unfulfilling. The “mystery” of her birth was almost blatantly obvious to me. What Riley failed to do was to give any real clues as to why Ally was given up for adoption and why Pa Salt chose her. Also, large portions of this novel were very similar to Riley’s The Italian Girl, which I have found to be her least intriguing novel.

I honestly wonder if Riley hasn’t bitten off more than she can chew with this series. The first book was excellent, but by committing to publish a new book every year (I’m assuming that’s the plan), she may not be giving herself enough time to fully develop her stories and give them the polish that such books as The Lavender Garden and The Orchid House had.

Final verdict: the first book in this series was excellent, the second one is just OK. It is entertaining and I would still recommend it, but don’t expect too much from it.

The Lake House

Don’t read this novel if you have an overflowing “To Do” list, if you value your sleep, or if you need to clean your house from top to bottom for Thanksgiving company, because you will become an unproductive zombie with a dirty house. :) That’s pretty much what happened to me. By the time I got to the last quarter of the book I decided to just sit down and finish it, which was hard to do with a toddler. Luckily, I had some peanut butter cookies on hand for those “just a few more pages” or “just one more chapter” moments.

The Lake House is set in beautiful Cornwall and mainly bounces back and forth between the 1930s and 2003. It involves several family mysteries, a missing child, and a web of family relationships so complex you just might lay awake until 3 a.m. trying to untangle it all.

I have loved all of Morton’s novels, but The Lake House ranks up there with my other favorite, The Forgotten Garden. Morton is a master of atmosphere, suspense, and plot. I can tell she is well versed in Victorian Gothic literature. Some might say her endings are too “neat,” but I prefer to see them as fearlessly satisfying and refreshingly lacking in cynicism.

My recommendation is to immediately get yourself a copy of this novel. Then, grab a warm blanket, a cup of hot chocolate, curl up in your favorite chair and let those long autumn evenings become your friend.

Invictus

Before reading John Carlin’s, Invictus, Nelson Mandela, South African politics, and rugby were three subjects that took up about 0.05% of my brain space. I knew they existed and after that there was nothing but dead air. I love it when a book makes up a deficiency in my knowledge and reading Invictus was a tremendously eye-opening experience for me.

Invictus tells the story of how Nelson Mandala used rugby, in particular the Springboks team, to ease racial tension and unite South Africa. The Springboks were the embodiment of white supremacism and nearly every black person rooted against them, hoping for their demise, but through Mandala’s PR and encouragement, they went on to win the World Cup and their entire nation came together to support them. This might seem far-fetched to those who are not enamored by sports. I mean, really, how can a group of beefy men who hurl themselves on each other bring people together? In the end, I think Carlin made a convincing case that Mandala’s “human calculation” did help unify the fractured race relations, but I still find it hard to believe that one game and one victory could so completely change such ingrained tensions overnight.

I think Carlin’s story was at its best when he was writing about Mandela, whom he obviously admired. Your heart would have to be fashioned from a calcified tree stump to not be moved by the poem, Invictus, which Mandala often recited when he became discouraged during his 23 years of imprisonment.

A word on the movie. Matt Damon in little white rugby shorts would be enough of a reason to rent the movie, but I actually think the movie is a good companion for the book. The scope of this book was too large, at-least for someone who is completely unfamiliar with everyone except Mandela. There were too many tangential people to keep track of and the writing style wasn’t exactly captivating. Not bad, just a bit dry in that factual, journalistic way. The movie doesn’t ask you to know anyone beyond Mandala and the Springbok captain, Francois Pienaar. The movie boiled the story down to its feel good parts, but I’m certain I would not have been as engaged if I hadn’t read the book. The movie doesn't say enough about politics, the book says too much, but between the two you can find a balance of knowledge and enjoyment.

The Invention of Wings

The Invention of Wings

This story kept me up past midnight. I’m not a night person, so that should tell you how good it was. I’m sure I had heard of the Grimke sisters and Denmark Vesey before reading this book, but if you had asked me who they were, and what they did, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you. One of the reasons I love historical fiction is that it gets real people and events on my radar in a way that reading history by itself doesn't. I always want to learn more after reading a good historical novel.

The novel begins in Charleston, South Carolina in 1803. Sarah Grimke, who is eleven-years old at the time, narrates half of the story. Her large family owns a number of slaves, but due to a traumatic scene she witnessed as a child, she abhors slavery and wants nothing to do with it. The other part of this story is narrated by Handful, who was given to Sarah as her slave on her 11th birthday. It seems that most stories concerning slaves focus on plantation life, so it was interesting to read what life was like for slaves in town. That being said, the horrors of slavery were not a revelation. If it had only been Handful’s narrative, this novel would have been just OK. It is Sarah’s story, juxtaposed against Handful’s, that makes this book such a fantastic read.

Kidd’s writing is energetic and fluid. She moves the story along at a brisk pace and as the narrative goes back and forth between Handful and Sarah, the stories intertwine so well that you never feel like you’re losing the thread of one in favor of the other.

Sarah Grimke was a powerfully inspiring character. She was a woman with a lot going against her – she wanted learning and knowledge and to become a lawyer, only to have her dreams squashed by her conservative patriarchal family. She wasn’t beautiful. She struggled with an embarrassing speech impediment and with public speaking. Her sister, Angelina, who became her partner in the abolition and women’s rights cause, was dynamic, fearless, and supposedly beautiful, but she seemed less interesting because of it. I guess that is why Kidd chose to tell Sarah’s story, rather than Angelina’s. Isn’t it curious that the characters we find the most fascinating in novels are the ones who seem the least remarkable in real life?