One of the shelves that got moved was my “to read” shelf–all the books that I’ve bought and never read.  It didn’t seem like that many books until they were stacked vertically.  I know it could be worse–heck, I have friends who have much bigger piles than I do.  But in a way, it stresses me out. 

And then I read this article, a review on NPR of Elizabeth’s German Garden.  I bought this book years ago (maybe 10?) and have never cracked the cover.  Of course, I must also confess that I only bought it because this book was one of L. M. Montgomery’s very favorite books and is where she borrowed that immortal phrase “kindred spirits.”  I bought it as a curiousity, never thinking that it might actually be a book I enjoy.  And based on this review, I think I might really like it.  I started feeling really guilty about all the books in my house that were interesting enough to buy, but haven’t yet been read.

Over the last year or so, the vast majority of books I’ve read have come from the library.  Which is a great and wonderful thing, and it’s not like I’m going to abandon the library.  But I have decided this: as soon as I finish the two books that I currently have checked out, I’m going to only read books that presently reside in my house for one month.  It’s a break from the library, as magical as it is. 

And though I’m not one of those bloggers that inspires challenges and such, I do invite you to join me in a library break and tackle your own to-read stack.  There’s no telling what we might discover on on our own shelves.

So, what should I read first?

And this is where I will briefly digress to say that though I will never read everything on my Nook, digitization is a great way to make smaller, lesser known (and older!) works accessible.  So I love Real Books and I love my Nook, and gosh darn it, I hope both exist happily together for many years to come.

I didn’t actually begin reading it until early March.  And it didn’t take me long to fall in love and start giggling.  And if I had read this any other spring, I would not have laughed as hard.

You see, four little girls are in need of a playhouse.  And a tiny vacant house is available, but “nowhere else were there such mammoth dandelions or such prickly burrs.”  Their rent?  “If you pull up every weed in this place before the end of next week you shall have the use of the cottage for all the rest of the summer in return for your services.”

This spring has been the worst for weeds ever.  My yard has always had weed issues, but it’s much, much worse this year.  Between the drought and heat of last summer, and the rain this winter, there’s not enough grass to hold the weeds back.  My only comfort is that my yard is not the worst on the block.  I’ve seen some absolutely insane weeds everywhere, including this beauty, which was in front of my office.

I’ve never seen a dandelion so big before–well over 3 feet tall before it was cut down.  So, as I read of the four girls tackling those weeds, I kinda wished I could bribe some kids to tackle my yard.  Check out this scene of weed digging:

“I’m a soldier,” said Marjory, brandishing a trowel, “vanquishing my enemies.  You know in books the hero always battles single-handed with about a million foes and always kills hem all and everybody lives hapy ever after–zip!  There goes one!”

“I”m a pioneer,” said Jean, slashing away at a huge tough burdock.  “I’m chopping down the forest primeval to make a potato patch.  The dandelions are skulking Indians, and I’m capturing them to put in my bushel-basket prison.”

“I’m just digging weeds,” said prosaic Mabel, “and I don’t like it.”

Of course, they conquer the weeds, and then there’s that truly wonderful part about setting up house.  I don’t know when I started enjoying these domestic tales so much, but I’ve always loved stories of people putting together a home.  Since this is “just” a playhouse, the girls are at first consigned to cast-offs from their homes.  Which they totally realized and joke about:

“We might call this “The House of Tickless Clocks,” suggested Jean.

“Or of the grindless coffee-mill,” giggled Marjory.

“Or of the talkless telephone,” added Mabel.

Eventually, they make things so nice that they end up with a lovely boarder (another great example of a fabulous adult in children’s fiction that aren’t family, but are awesome) and some mean neighbors that try to steal their house.

And it was during that little scene, in which Mabel sends a telegram asking for help, that I giggled more than most people would.  You see, the same week I was reading this, we had a series of activities at the museum relating to communication over 100 years ago.  Somehow, most days, I ended up with our reproduction telegraph.  Over and over again, I explained to children about how telegraph messages had to be short and to the point, since you were charged by the word.  I made comparisons to early text messaging.  I had my spiel down pat.  And then I read about Mable carefully composing the telegram for help.  When she hands it over to the clerk, the following occurs:

The clerk opened the envelope–Mabel considered this decidedly rude of him–and proceeded to read the message.  It took him a long time.  Then he looked from Mabel’s flushed cheeks and eager eyes to the little collection of nickels and dimes she had placed on the counter.  Mabel wondered why he chewed the ends of his sandy mustache so vigorously.  . . .

“It’ll be all right, Miss Mabel,” said he at last.  “It’s a pretty good fifty-five cents worth; but I guess Mr. Black won’t object to that.”

I won’t spoil the message, but I will say that when Mr. Black received the telegram he had to pay a few more dollars to the Western Union man.

Dandelion Cottageis truly a charming little book, and one I highly recommend.  It’s sweet and funny, and you can’t help but fall in love with these little girls.  But honestly, I think half of my enjoyment of this book was the timing–it wouldn’t have been near as amusing and fun if I had read it before this incredibly weird spring.  I would have liked it, but part of my love is purely based on the abundance of dandelions throughout North Texas this year.

The cottage itself is a “real” place, located in Marquette, Michigan.  Several years ago, a wonderful piece was written by the current owner of the home, which gives a brief overview of its history–and what it’s like to live in a literary home. 

And because I can’t resist, here’s a picture of the “real” cottage.  What a magical playhouse!

One of my favorite parts of my job is the junior historian program.  Right now, I have around 30 kids, ages 11 to 18, that are choosing to spend their spare time hanging out with me at the Village.  This book is all about the teen junior interpreters, who happen to be at war with the other living history museum across the street.  They are colonials, and those other guys are Civil War re-enactors.  Of course, there’s also forbidden romance, some museum politics, and ice cream.  Lots of ice cream. 

Chelsea, the main character, doesn’t want to admit that she’s totally hooked on all of this (she would have rather spent the summer working at the mall, in air conditioning), but history is part of her blood.  My favorite parts, obviously, are the parts about working at a museum.  I’ve known tourists (called moderners here-the one part of the book that just felt odd to me) exactly like the ones portrayed.  I kept thinking about my kids while I was reading about these fictional kids.  To the best of my knowledge, we haven’t had any actual romances at the Village, but there have been some crushes.  We definitely have some kids that are classic history nerds, some that really just want to dress up and create a character, and some that have been raised in the living history world.  But all my kids are there because they want to be, and that’s one of the things I liked most about this book–all the characters loved what they did (even if they did it for different reasons), and they were proud of what they did.  There was no shame in spending your summer in colonial dress. 

There are so many passages I want to share with you, enough that I worry about copyright infringement or something along those lines.  But I still have to share a few bits.

From the very beginning, when Chelsea is describing the types of people that work at places like Colonial Essex Village

Type one: history nerds.  People who memorized all the battles of the Revolutionary War by age ten; who can, and will, tell you how many casualties were sustained at Bunker Hill; who hotly debate the virtures of bayonets over pistols.  They are mostly pale-skinned, reedy, acne-scarred boys in glasses (unless they can’t find a pair of historically accurate glasses and are forced to get contacts).  I don’t know if they were born so unappealing, and turned to history for companionship because they realized they were too grotesque to attract real-life friends or if their love of history came first, and maybe they could have turned out hot, but invested all their energy in watching twelve-hour documentaries about battleships.  It’s a chicken-or-egg type of question.

Or this, on the top questions from visitors:

1.  “Where’s the bathroom?”

This is far and away the most common question.  You don’t actually need any sort of historical knowledge to work at Essex.  You just have to know where the nearest toilet is.

And then later, in that same chapter:

These are pretty much the only questions people ask Colonials.  If they want you to tell them anything else, just make it up.  They will believe you, because you are wearing a costume.

This is not a book that will change your life, but I’m still recommending it to just about everyone I know.  It’s so rare for history museums to be portrayed in popular culture, much less living history museums.  And it’s pretty accurate–from the employees and volunteers that are obsessed with historic details to the weird questions visitors ask.  I have met, at one time or another, every single character in this book.  Of course, they have a much, much larger staff than we do and there are no conversations about budget cuts and declining visitation.  But I can live with that–and most teens wouldn’t know anything about budgets anyway.  It’s a book that’s funny without being mean–she makes jokes about this crazy world, but they were al jokes we’ve made before.  And though Chelsea does something very damaging to the museum across the street, well, it’s the kind of scandal that does happen in the museum world.

The author biography on the back flap mentions that Sales spent some time as an interpreter on Boston’s Freedom Trail.  It shows, and I think that’s part of the reason this book works so well.  Sales has been a part of this world, but she can also separate herself enough to find the humor in all of it.  Because let’s face it: little about my workplace is ordinary.

Bonus: after checking the author’s website, I discovered that you can read Past Perfect online for free through the end of February.  Go!  Enjoy!

A lot, right?  Anne Shirley (and just about all of Montgomery’s heroines), Sara Crewe, Mary Lennox, Rebecca (of Sunnybrook Farm), Pollyanna, Judy from Daddy-Long-Legs and on and on.  Then, throw in the kids that have a parent absent for all or most of the book–the March sisters, the Melendys, the Five Little Peppers and on and on.  Suddenly, it seems like a household with two parents is rare indeed in this fictional world.

I can certainly see the appeal for an author–no parents really opens up the dramatic possibilities for a character.  I remember being completely enchanted with The Boxcar Children–setting up house in a boxcar?  And it’s not like this is a plot device that has faded in recent years.  Harry Potter might possibly be the most famous orphan ever.

But for children living in the 19th century, losing a parent to death was a very real possibility.  In 1900, the average life expectancy was 48 (lower if you weren’t white.).  About half of all young people lost at least one parent before they reached 21.    Leading causes of death included influenza, pneumonia, and tuberculosis.  And for women, childbirth was up there as well.  Anne Shirley’s story may have hit really close to home for her first readers, and yet she was immediately a best-seller.  Many of these stories endure, even though today children are far more likely to lose a parent to divorce than death.  In some ways, this doesn’t make sense–the idea of losing a parent is terrifying.  Why would anyone want to read about such a thing for fun?

Perhaps part of the appeal of these orphan stories is that most of these stories have happy endings.  The kids find homes, whether with long-lost relatives or strangers.  They have sparkling personalities that makes them lovable.  They have adventures that readers with a secure home can barely imagine.

I recently met another beloved orphan in Adopted Jane by Helen Fern Daringer.  This is a book that I hadn’t heard of but came highly recommended.  When I added it to my goodreads shelf, there were all sorts of people that said “Oh, I love this book!”  Jane is an older orphan (you know the type–a good girl, but no longer young and no longer cute and less likely to be adopted).  She has a remarkable summer where she gets to visit two different homes–her first experience in a “real” home.  And then, both families offer to adopt her and she gets to choose a forever home. 

Jane is delightful.  She’s a hard worker and desperate to be polite and do the right thing.  She’s not one of those orphans that gets into constant trouble; rather, she’s a little girl that people just naturally love.  And she learns to love too.  One of my favorite little exchanges in the book is this bit at the end:

“You must write a letter to thank Mr. and Mrs. Scott for their kind offer.”

“Oh, and to say I love them.”  In all her life Jane had never spoken out loud about loving anybody, but now the word sounded right and natural.

Adopted Jane is a classic orphan tale.  Jane is convinced that this is her only chance to see what the world is like outside of the James Ballard Home.  And she sees so much–parties, friends, an elopement.  And she realizes that maybe she should try to go to college.  When she returns to the orphanage, it’s with new eyes.  But she’s still afraid to hope for the best.  She asks to be allowed to earn so money.  The matron says:

“You’re a sensible girl, Jane.  You wouldn’t squander the money like some.”

“Oh, no, ma’am,” Jane agreed eagerly.  “I want to save it for–” She checked herself just in time.  She had almost said for college.  Matron would not approve of college; she would call it “highfalutin folderol.

At this point, the happy ending hasn’t come yet.  Jane is still an orphan, though now she has dreams.  With that perfect happy ending, the reader is assured that Jane will get everything her heart desires.

I don’t anticipate orphan tales–or tales of absent parents–will ever go away.  As kids grow, they want to stretch their boundaries.  What would I do if I just had me?  Could I make my way?  But these stories are safe.  By the time the book is closed, they are no longer alone in the world.  And that is satisfying indeed.

Thinking of you (2005-12-23)

My favorite introduction for a Christmas gift: I saw this and instantly thought of you! That’s when I know, almost without a doubt, that it’s going to be good. It’s also a phrase that I rarely hear from my family. . .

 Anyway, one of my coworkers said this to me the other day, and sure enough, this is the best Christmas gift so far! It’s a children’s picture book: The Boy Who Looked Like Lincoln, written by Mike Reiss, a writer for the Simpsons. It’s all about a little boy who (surprise!) looks like Lincoln and the fact that he gets teased all the time. Until he goes to Camp What-Cha-Ma-Call-It, filled with other kids who also look like odd things.

 My favorite part: at the end, the school bullies say “Hey, Lincoln, whatcha thinkin?” And he says “I’m thinking how lucky I am to look like Abe Lincoln, our greatest president, who freed the slaves and won the Civil War and kept our country together and the capital of Nebraska is named after him!” Of course, that little sentence is written in progressively larger letters.

 It’s a giggle worthy book, definitely worth reading in the aisle of your favorite book store (or buying the book (that could be good too).

Folks, I still adore this book.  A few years ago, we did an exhibit on the 1860 election and I picked this book for our preschool story-time.  Reading this to a group of kids and their parents was so much fun!  I don’t talk about picture books very often here, but this is a great one to nurture a love of Lincoln in a little one.  That, and a sense of humor.

For those not familiar with the book, it’s the story of a 12 year old girl, sent to a small town in Kansas in 1936.  During her summer there, she uncovers the town’s past, with frequent shifts in narrative to 1917 and 1918.    Abilene is a lovely little girl, but she doesn’t have as strong a voice as many other narrators in similar books.  But this wasn’t what bothered me.  What bothered me was the history.

I’ve talked before about the historical fiction trap that so many modern writers fall into: that habit of trying to pull as many historical threads into a story as possible.  You know, to teach children about the past.  It very, very rarely works, and usually annoys folks that have any knowledge about the period in question (The Hope Chest springs to mind).  But very, very rarely does a book inspire me to scurry over to google to check facts in the middle of a chapter.  Here’s the sentence that did that: “Alcohol was against the law then as much as it was in 1917, but folks could usually get a bottle of the stuff here or there.”  Now, I had just finished Ken Burns’ new documentary, Prohibition, and I was pretty sure that the 18th Amendment wasn’t passed until 1920, but FDR had repealed it in 1933.  Some quick checking revealed that Kansas didn’t repeal until 1948.  Plus, prohibition laws got started in Kansas in the 1880s, and the “Bone Dry Act” passed in 1917.  In going back through the book before starting this post, I did see a mention of the Bone Dry Act that I had forgotten about that occurred earlier in the book than the above sentence.  Technically, everything Vanderpool wrote is perfectly correct.  But it clashed with everything in my fairly well-educated historical head, and I just couldn’t get over it.  And I don’t recall anything being said that might have explained that Kansas was different from other states.  And the prohibition thread is a pretty important one for the story.  We’re not talking about a minor, nit-picky detail.

So what does it matter?  After all, the target market for this book isn’t public historians in their 30s.  It’s kids that have probably never heard of prohibition.  They’re not going to be confused by the timeline the way that I was.  I guess my annoyance happens on a couple of different levels.  First, this confusion could very easily have been solved.  Abilene had traveled throughout the country and was new to Kansas.  Couldn’t she have made a comment or asked a question about Shady and his still?  A brief explanation, and the story continues.  Problem solved!  And yet, not even the author’s note (which is quite possibly one of the weirdest author notes ever) mentions the fact that Kansas was one of the last states to repeal prohibition.  I just don’t know how that wasn’t mentioned somewhere. 

But my real issue is this: generally speaking, we as a society are not very well educated about the past.  Whenever I ponder historical accuracy issues in films or books, I tend to look at the big picture.  If the big ideas–the things that people will actually remember a few months after they’ve read the book or seen the movie–are correct, I’m okay.  If people won’t be completely confused if they look something up later, I’m okay.  But I don’t think that tenet holds true for this book.  I must have looked up Kansas liquor laws three or four times while I read this book.  Kind of interrupts the narrative flow, don’t you think?  And can you imagine trying to teach this book?

My other issue with this book is that it seems to have taken every big historical headline from 1917/1918 and made sure the issue happens in that tiny town.  The immigration stuff totally made sense, and I was happy to the stuff about the relationship between the town and its people.  (It made me think of Thurber, TX, a very similiar town).  But throwing in the KKK?  Technically, the KKK did revive itself in 1915, but it wasn’t a huge thing again until after WWI–the whole soldiers coming back and wanting a better life thing caused a bit of strife.  And I don’t think this small incident did anything to move the story along.

And of course, there’s WWI drama, a brief visit from Woodrow Wilson, war deaths, and the big 1918 flu epidemic is foreshadowed for almost the whole book and then barely discussed.  It’s just all a very strange mish-mash of history.

Honestly, I think this would have been a stronger, tighter book if the flashback portions of the book were set in the 1920s.  Yes, much of the WWI stuff would be left out, but the flow of the narrative would have worked better.  And timeline issues would have been solved. 

The best historical fiction are the works that put the story first and history second.  And yes, I’m saying this as a historian.  But I’m saying this as a historian that wants people to like history and get wrapped up in it, and books like this just won’t do it.  The narrative is the important thing, and the history behind it just deepens the story.  In this book–and there’s nothing I’ve found either in the author’s note or on her website to contradict this–she found some cool tidbits about the past and then built a story around it.  And it just doesn’t work for me at all.

We had a smaller event (the reading list and post about last year’s event) this past weekend which featured Christmas chapters from books set during the museum’s time period.  I read quite a few bits from the Little House books and Betsy-Tacy to guests.  For some little ones, it was their first introduction to Laura and Mary.  Many times during the day, I would read a passage, turn to the visitors and say “Does that sound familiar?”  And they would nod eagerly, their eyes round with wonder.  Though the concept of thinking a very good Christmas was a tin cup, a cake, a stick of candy and a penny is completely out of their realm of imagination, the worry about how Santa would find them is still a big concern for kids today.

Historically speaking, it amazes me how set some of our traditions have been for the past century or so.  Though variations of the legend of Saint Nicholas have been around for centuries, Clement C. Moore’s famous poem, “‘Twas the Night Before Christmas,”  wasn’t published until 1823.  And the visual we have of Santa in a red suit with belly and beard wasn’t firmed up until Thomas Nast drew a cartoon in 1863, smack dab in the middle of the Civil War.  (side note: Nast was more famous at the time for his political cartoons, which I find fascinating.  Early political cartoons and Santa, all in one artist!)  During the 19th century, there were enormous changes in how we celebrated Christmas (for more on this, check out Stephen Nissenbaum’s The Battle for Christmas, which I wrote about last year).  But what struck me on this read-through of some old favorites is how these changes weren’t really thought of as new, but the way it’s always been.

Now, historical purists will remind me that the publication dates on these autobiographical novels don’t match the dates they were set, so it’s entirely possible that the attitudes about Christmas better reflect the 20th century than the 19th.  But let’s just ignore that for right now and see what we can find that’s stayed virtually unchanged over the past century and more.  I had thought about typing out some of these wonderful quote and passages for you, but decided that part of the fun is reading the whole chapter.  So, my gift to you is an excuse to pull out an old favorite!

Worry about Santa finding you?  Check out multiple volumes in the Little House series, including Little House on the Prairie (no snow!) and On the Banks of Plum Creek (no chimney!)

The joy of finding the perfect gift for someone?  Take a look at Anne of Green Gables (puffed sleeves!) or Roller Skates (Trinket’s first Christmas tree).

The worry of not being able to give all you want to?  Probably all of the Little House books and Little Women too (“Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents.”)

The importance of stockings!  Again, Little House and also the later Betsy-Tacy books.

Hinting about something you want and not trusting your family to get it for you?  Why, you simply must read “The Brass Bowl” in Heaven to Betsy (possibly my favorite Christmas passage in the BT books.)

Food, glorious food?  Well, descriptions are all over the place, but Farmer Boy immediately leaps to mind.  The description of the feast almost takes up a whole page.

The fun of shopping, even if you don’t buy?  Why, go no further than Betsy and Tacy Go Downtown, which also includes one of my favorite bits about the importance of believing in Santa, even if you are grown up.

I know I’m leaving out many Christmas classics.  What are some of your favorites?  These stories have so much in common, even if they were written decades ago.  And I think they’re going to last just fine into the future.  Even as time and technology hurries forward, some things, especially emotions don’t change much.

And now I must run to do a wee bit of last minute shopping myself.  Merry Christmas to you and yours.  And happy reading!

This summer, I met two very special little girls and became their occasional babysitter.  They live in the neighborhood, are an absolute hoot, and plus, it’s a wee bit of extra money for the trip to Hawaii (yes, part of my absence was spent in Hawaii) and some major house projects.  As soon as I met Grace (age 9) and Sophie (age 7), I knew that these kids were ripe for my influence–there were books all over their house, and Sophie has one heck of an imagination.  I knew right away that these girls needed to meet Betsy and Tacy.  And about a million other of my favorites too–right now, there’s a wee bit too much Disney Fairy stuff in their life.

Now, I’ve been a book evangelist for the kids in my life for years.  I give books as gifts, cross my fingers, and hope for the best.  Rarely do I hear anything, though I’m always thrilled when I do.  I’ve had some pretty good success with nephew Bobby (we had a very memorable text conversation after he finally read Hunger Games), but never, ever with any of my favorites.  The closest was when I gave Katie a copy of Anne last year–she took it to dinner with her but was too distracted by the Bob Armstrong dip to actually start reading it.  But hey–a kid that takes books to dinner–that’s my kind of kid.

The first time I babysat Grace and Sophie, I brought Betsy-Tacy with me.  I knew that they had reading time (specifically, read aloud time) before bed and very carefully introduced my book.  Right away, they seemed intrigued, closely examining the pictures and asking questions.  And each time I came back, they made sure I had brought the book and we read a few more chapters.

I don’t know that I’ve ever gotten to share one of my favorites like this before.  It is pure magic.  They’re listening so hard and get so wrapped up in the story.  My favorite moment with them was when we read the Easter Egg chapter, the chapter in which Baby Bee dies.  I was a little nervous about this bit, mainly because I wasn’t sure how much their parents had talked to them about death and dying.  When we got to the line “She didn’t come over the next day, nor the next, for Baby Bee died.” Sophie gasped.  Like really gasped with the whole wide-eyed shocked expression on her face.  We stopped for a minute to talk about how there weren’t as many good medicines back then, so sometimes people died.  And then we got to the part where Betsy explains to Tacy: “But she gets all the news. . . Do you know how she gets it?  Why, from the birds.  They fly up there and tell her how you are and what you’re all doing down at your house.”  At this point, ever practical and literal Grace says “That’s not how it is at all.”  I almost burst out laughing, but managed to keep a straight face.

The last time I watched the girls happened to be Sophie’s 7th birthday.  I wanted to get her a little something, so picked up a clothespin doll from our museum store.  Sophie was completely enraptured with the little brown-haired doll and said (at absolutely no prompting from me!): “It’s Betsy!”  That wasn’t at all my intention when I gave it to her, I swear!  After all, this is a grown-up doll, not a little girl doll.  But she played with Betsy all night and has requested a red-headed doll.  And that night, they chose to read an extra chapter of Betsy, rather than have some time to read their own books.  My work here is done.  Though the next time I come over, I’m thinking about making sand jars, and that will probably really send them over the top.

For Christmas, guess what these little girls are getting?  Why, the new Betsy-Tacy Treasury, of course!  Isn’t it awfully nice of Harper Collins to publish this right when I have such good little converts?  They’re going to eat up all the extra information and photos and biographies with a spoon.

Have you been able to successfully share some of your kidlit history favorites?  Any great stories?

A few weeks ago, I had run out of library books so I picked it up.  Immediately, I liked it–loved Fran, loved the spirit of a small town working together, loved the magic with which these kids saw Washington D. C.

But then there was a moment where my jaw dropped, and I almost stopped reading.  The set-up is this–the kids have gathered, with signs, to persuade the school board to let them take their trip to DC.  Almost the entire thing has been Fran, the class president’s idea.  It’s her voice that tells the story.  And then she says this: “I encouraged him and the other boys to plan the attack.  While women should be active in politics and all that, it seems to me there are times when it’s more appropriate to let men handle things.”  The feminist in me roared.  It was her idea!  It was her organizational skills that got the signs made, and the protestors together.  She and her friends (girls, I might add) had done everything that got their classmates to this point.  The books suddenly felt dated, and not in a good way.

But I kept reading, in part to see if there were any other moments like that and in part to see what their DC trip was like.  And though I enjoyed the rest of the book, that one little sentence dampened my enthusiasm.

The museum nerd in me wishes there had been more descriptions of the museums.  Fran does fall completely in love with the National Portrait Gallery, but stolen moments with a boy get more words than her awe at the art.  But throughout the portion that occurs in DC, there’s this optimism and patriotism and love of our country that is becoming harder and harder to find.  This book was published in 1962; before Kennedy’s assassination, before Vietnam, before Watergate, before 9/11.  Before patriotism changed.  It became dated on an entirely different level.

I finished my read of Senior Trip on September 9, just days before the 10th anniversary of 9/11.  Reminders of the 10th anniversary were everywhere, and as I read,  I couldn’t help but think of my second trip to DC, in late September 2001.  I had been to DC a few years before, as a college student visiting my boyfriend who was doing summer research in DC (he got to hang out at the Library of Congress on a regular basis.  I still envy that summer of his!)  This was a very different trip. 

I had won a fellowship, so others were paying for my travel and lodging.  Regan was still closed, so they got me on a plane that routed me from Raleigh to Chicago to Dulles.  This seemed very, very silly.  Mom really didn’t like the idea of me driving to DC by myself (I had just moved 1500 miles away, plus the 9/11 thing, so she was sensitive), so I booked travel on Amtrak.  As soon as I arrived in Union Station, the city felt different.  I skipped one day of the conference to do museum things.  The National Mall was deserted.  There were barricades and security everywhere.  I got to the National Museum of American History early and waited on the museum’s broad steps.  There were a handful of people waiting with me, along with a security guard.  Someone asked him what attendance had been like in the weeks since 9/11.  He replied that they were lucky to see in a day what they normally see in an hour.  My jaw dropped.

That visit to the history museum was unlike any other.  For one thing, I was almost entirely alone.  I was able to stand in front of the ruby slippers all by myself and just stare. I was able to go through an exhibit on the Presidency almost completely alone.  It was eerie and moving and not quite right.

So, it was strange to read this optimistic, glowing account of visiting our national capitol as I was reminded of that trip 10 years ago.  Senior Trip captures emotions that seem almost foreign in today’s climate.  It’s a snapshot of yesterday.

But already the fabled city seemed to come running out to meet us with its million messengers of light.  The traffic had thickened; taillights made a winking necklace of red rubies strung before us straight ahead.  The suburbs blazed and sparkled their welcome on either side of the highway, and drawing deeper and deeper into the lights, you were in a veritable fairyland, a blazing garden, and facing a river where the lights were golden stripes upon the water far below.  Suddenly you were in the city proper, sufficiently penetrated into their very core for the lights to melt aside in favor of the sky.  And there, serenely crowning in its solitary splendor, we saw the white and shining thing we all had been watching for.

“There she is, the dome, the dome, the Capitol dome!” The cry went up as it to hail some celestial mother.  And in the next gasp: “The Monument!  The Washington Monument!”  For beyond, clean and sharp and clear, that tall white finger stood.

As long as I live, no sight will ever equal that moment for me–that moment of that night when we first saw Washington.  –Senior Trip p. 122 & 123

Today, it’s hard to imagine students entering the city with the same enthusiasm.  But perhaps the last 10 years have made me cynical.

The main archives for the WASP program are held at Texas Women’s University(http://www.twu.edu/library/wasp.asp), which is located about an hour north of Dallas.  I’ve been to that archives a few times, researching various things relating to women and war.  They have a permanent exhibit relating to the WASP and have an extensive oral history collection.  It’s all very, very amazing.

So, I was happy to hear about Sherri Smith’s Flygirl and even happier to see that it was getting rave reviews.  It’s one of those stories that should be better known.  The WASP story is a great one–flying seems so “easy” now–we forget how daring those early pilots were.  And then, I discovered that the main character, Ida Mae Jones, was African American and decided to pass as white in order to serve her country.

Sherri Smith tells us in the afterword that there’s no evidence that anyone like Ida Mae served as a WASP.  But here’s the thing: this story could have been told just as easily with a white woman as the main character.  And it still would have been a good story.  Making Ida Mae African American adds wonderful layers of complexity and opens up all sorts of room for big ideas.  What is race?  Could you deny your identity for something you believe in?  Does Ida Mae have a place in the post-war America?

I admit that my list so far of kidlit history is dominated by white protagonists.  And history in general, especially public history, is still dominated by a white narrative.  I could go into some of the many, many reasons public history is both ahead and behind of broadening that narrative, but this isn’t the place to do that.  Suffice it to say that a big part of the reason I love this book is that it takes a story that doesn’t have to be about race and makes it about race.  We know non-white women served.  Here’s some brief biographical information on Hazel Ah Ying (http://www.twu.edu/library/wasp/wasppdf/Lee.pdf) and Maggie Gee (http://www.twu.edu/library/wasp/wasppdf/GeeM.pdf), two Asian pilots that served.  Smith had the courage to ask the question: “What if?” and answered it with her novel. 

Smith also had the courage to end Ida Mae’s story with a big question mark.  There’s no real place for Ida Mae after the war and whatever she chooses, she’ll have to deny a big part of herself.  There are no easy answers for her.  It’s powerful stuff to think about.