School is a really big part of so much of kidlit history.  Because, you know, these are books about kids and they spend most of their time in school.  Usually.  In no particular order, some of my favorite school incidents in kidlit history.

Anne thwacks Gilbert with a slate.   Well, he totally deserved it, what with calling her carrots and all.  Little did he know that she was not a girl to be trifled with.  Still love this line after all these years: “Anne had brought her slate down on Gilbert’s head and cracked it–slate, not head–clear across.”  And from there begins one of the greatest “I can’t stand you!” to “I will beat you at everything.” to “I guess we can be friends” to “I love you!” relationships ever.  What would their story have been like if Gilbert had never called her carrots?  Would there have even been a story? 

Side note: though I have nothing to back this up, I’m willing to bet that this one scene is the most commonly illustrated scene from Anne.  Such drama!

Side note #2: I have never been able to decide if this really hurt Gilbert’s head or if it was just super dramatic.  Perhaps it was more of a stunning situation. 

Side note #3:  Guessing all the boys were less likely to tease Anne after this one. 

Tacy runs away from school.  Everyone knows that Tacy is shy, and most people know how to handle that.  Except her teacher, Miss Dalton, who puts her right up front, away from the other kids (and more importantly away from Betsy), and next to her.  Who is, of course, a stranger.  So who can blame Tacy for running away during recess?  Tears and wailing on the part of both Tacy and Betsy ensues.  Thank goodness for Mrs. Chubbock who has chocolate men.  “They couldn’t very well eat and cry together.”  Words to live by, my friends!

Laura teaches school at the Brewster Settlement.  Laura is not yet 16 and is off to teach school.  Some of her pupils are older and taller and much meaner than she is.  The family she boards with is more than a little dysfunctional.  The scene with the knife still makes me shiver.  But as a historian, I’m grateful for this incident to show that not everyone did well in the wilderness.  The bright spot in what could be quite a lot of gloom—Almanzo–driving through the snow so she can go home each weekend.  Sigh.

Funny how two of my favorite school stories are also romantic. . .

What are some of your favorite school stories from children’s literature?

Exhibit A:  My Summer Reading Club Logbook, from 1988, when I was 8 and 5/6 years old (yes, the fraction is on the logbook).  Some sample books, some of which I’ve been thinking about lately and am about to reread or have reread recently:

Trixie Belden, # 2, 3, 4, 5, 6,  7, 8, and 9.  (It appears I didn’t read these in order–must have had to wait my turn at the library!)

Henry Reed’s Journey (am currently reading Henry Reed’s Babysitting Service)

Encyclopedia Brown and the Case of the Dead Eagles

The Long Winter

Meet Theodore Roosevelt (I’m currently reading the gigantic Edmund Morris bio of Teddy).

Turn Homeward, Hannalee

The only thing that appears to be missing is anything by L. M. Montgomery.

Exibit B:

But never fear!  In a paper dated September 4, 1990 (6th grade), I had to list both short term and long term goals and how to reach them.  One of my long term goals (and I swear I am not making this up!) was:

“Collect all L. M. Montgomery books.  How to reach: Paying attention to lists of books and sales.”

Yeah, I’m still working on that one, though the list has greatly expanded to include first editions.  But still!

Exhibit C:

And finally, in another paper from 6th grade.  It appears that the assignment was to write a persuasive letter.  I’m guessing that we could write it to anyone living or dead because, well, you’ll see.  Here’s my letter:

April 8, 1991

Dear L. M. Montgomery,

I just love your books and think I would make an excellent character.  I’m smart, a talented writer, and full of mischief.  I have many adventures and misadventures.  My friends are almost as nice as me.  The book could have stuff in it about goals and mischief.  I also have a short temper which would make quite a few interesting chapters.  As you can see, my life could easily be turned into a best seller.

Ummm, yeah.  I didn’t have an ego at all!  But it is obvious that the love was quite deep.

Another friend shared this review from Horn Book which makes me fairly optimistic.

So my question for you:  are you going to see it?  Are you going to wait until its on DVD so you can drink heavily and/or curse loudly while watching it?  Or are you going to avoid like its the Worst Thing That Ever Happened in Hollywood?

Do you have favorite movie versions of books?  Most horrifying?

The dog trotted after the boy to the telephone booth in the corner of the drugstore.  Henry shoved him into the booth and shut the door.  He had never used a pay telephone before.  He had to put the telephone book on the floor and stand on tiptoe on it to reach the mouthpiece.  He gave the operator his number and dropped his nickel into the coin box.  (Henry Huggins, p. 3)

Now, I’ve used a pay phone before, but in this age of cell phones, how many kids are familiar with phone booths?  Or have ever heard of talking to an operator?  Or a phone book rather than google? 

Later, there’s a scene where Henry attempts to use a typewriter to fake a note from his mom to his teacher–all to get him out of the school play.  Now, kids are certainly familiar with typing, but are they going to understand the difficulties Henry had in typing a short note?

Somehow it didn’t look the way he thought it would.  The capitals were not in the right place.  He knew much wasn’t spelled with a j or yours with a z.  His fingers had just put themselves on the wrong keys.  Henry tore his letter into little pieces and threw them into the fireplace.  He ran another piece of paper into the typewriter and started again. . . Henry studied it.  Those capitals again.  He pushed the thing too soon or not soon enough.  And whoever heard of a word like ezcude?  Or doat?  His fingers just didn’t hit the right keys.  (Henry Huggins, p. 52-53)

Henry Huggins was Beverly Cleary’s first book, published in 1950.  She wrote it for the little boys in the library that wanted a book featuring “a boy like me.”  Sixty years later, Henry is still in print and still much loved.  Unlike most of the authors I talk about here, Beverly Cleary is still going strong (well, as strong as anyone can be at 94!).  I just love her author’s website, which includes an interactive map of Klickitat Street.

Henry was a contemporary novel back in 1950–none of the technology or little details of daily life were unusual to the first readers.  But now?  Has it become historical?

In my mind, there are two types of kidlit history–those books that are based on the author’s past and those books that have become historical by surviving.  What really separates the two is that the writer looking back has a general idea about things that might confuse their readers.  Hence, the wealth of details and explanations in the Little House books or even Betsy-Tacy.  But Cleary is assuming that her readers know all about typewriters–they know that correcting mistakes was virtually impossible.  They had a really good idea why Henry struggled so with that note–while kids today, so comfortable with the ease of computer editing, won’t.

I love these kinds of books, because the bits of history are so natural–the author isn’t consciously saying “kids in the future will need to know about phone booths, so I’ll be sure to include that.”

All the bits of technology aside, I fell in love with Henry all over again on this reread.  It has been a very, very long time since I’ve read any Cleary.  The last thing by her that I’ve read was her two memoirs, A Girl From Yamhill and My Own Two Feet, and that was more than a few years ago.  But on my midwestern road trip, I kept running into Cleary books for next to nothing–it was like the universe was telling me that it was time for me to revisit Klickitat Street.  So I see lots of Cleary in my immediate future.

Last night, we went through a fair chunk of it: high school and college paraphernalia, books and toys.  Lots of wonderful memories came flooding back, and though I’ve always known where I’ve come from, some things became a bit clearer.

As anyone who has ever come across this blog or me knows, I really like history.  It permeates all kinds of facets of my life.  As a museum educator, I pay attention when people start talking about “these kids today” and how they can’t place the American Revolution or the Civil War in the right century, much less decade.  I chose to be a museum educator for a lot of different reasons–one of them is that I believe that a love of history often seeps into a child’s life before they realize what’s happened.  And getting kids to love history early, whether through books or museums, will one day lead to better funding and more respect for history in general.  And of course, then the world will be a much better place.

But I digress.  As I’ve mentioned, I’ve always loved history.  My grandmother read all of the Little House books to me before I could read myself.  But as I started to go through some of my old doll clothes, I realized, the past has truly always been a part of my life.

I guess now would be a good time to explain a few things about my family.  First, the generations are just a little off.  My grandmother was born in 1907.  Her first two children were born in the early 1930s but mom didn’t come around until 1948 (can we say Surprise!).  Momo was also an incredibly crafty lady.  So my collection of doll clothes ranges from the 1930s to my own childhood in the 1980s. 

Most of the dresses are handmade.  Momo was also the type to make matching dresses for doll and little girl.  As I was going through the two boxes last night, there were more than a few dresses that I would love to have in my size today.  With playthings like this, is it any wonder that I’ve always loved clothes (particularly dresses) or always had a tendency towards vintage?

And then I got to the books.  Again, many things had been passed down, and I have fond memories of reading my aunts’ copies of Heidi and Little Women, but I had almost forgotten about the picture books.  Here are just a few, now resting comfortably in my closet (since I’m almost out of shelf space–wonder how that happened?)

I’ve been surrounded by old-fashioned things almost since the beginning.  And these things were just a natural part of my childhood–I knew they were special and they had to be taken care of, but I don’t remember ever hearing “here, you need to read this old book.”    This love of the past was never forced, it just was.

For years, Louise Erdrich’s 1999 novel, The Birchbark House has been held up as a counterpoint to the more frequently assigned Little House on the Prairie as a way to get the other side of the frontier story in kids’ minds.  In fact, in an interview Erdrich said “I loved the Little House books and the specificity of daly detail, the earthy substance of the food, work, the repetitions and the growth that make family.  I get crazy when I read about pioneers moving forward into ‘empty’ territory.  They were moving into somebody else’s house, home, hearth, and beloved yard.”  So though Erdrich’s books may have been a partial response to Wilder, I think it does a great disservice to only think about Omakayas v. Laura.

The Birchbark House is the story of one year, 1847, and the life of one family, members of the Ojibwa tribe.  They live near Lake Superior.  I will admit that it took me several days to get into this book, and I kept getting distracted by other things.  But Omakayas really started to grow on me–she’s in the process of discovering her place in the world, a truly universal story.  And the chapter about smallpox took my breath away.  We modern folks forget how truly terrifying disease was, and Erdrich, though also a modern person, does an amazing job of capturing the fear.  Check out this passage, early in the chapter:

It was hearing of his death in hushed tones, though, the next day, that we would always recall.  The report of it.  For the horror flooded swiftly from house to house, lodge to lodge.

He died of smallpox.

Although the visitor’s body was taken to the farthest end of the island, although everything he’d touched was burned, including the lodge he’d stayed in and the blankets he wore, although the generous family who let him in purified themselves in the sweat lodge, burned all of their belongings, and threw themselves upon the mercy of the missions, fear abounded in the settlement.  Had the visitor left another, more horrible visitor behind?  Sickness?  Death? (p. 142-143)

When I finished this book this afternoon, I realized to my surprise that I really liked it.  The characters felt natural, not forced as so often happens in historical fiction.  Erdrich did base this novel on her ancestors, and the connection shows.   The illustrations, done by the author, are charming and add so much to the book.  Lots of good detail, and there’s a natural, wonderful flow to the story.

Am I now a fan of Native American history?  Not really, but I am a fan of Omakayas and her story.  But I suppose that’s a start.

Frankly, I was fairly undecided about visiting Hannibal.  I knew it was on the way from Springfield to Kansas City.  But I had visited there in my early teens and thought it was more than a little strange then.  And that was before being a museum professional corrupted me from fully enjoying more than one small museum.  But Wendy and I had a day to play, and I felt like I had done everything I needed to do in Springfield.  So I made the decision: if Hannibal was less than two hours from Springfield, we would go.  According to mapquest, it was 1 hour, 50 minutes, so off we went.

As you might expect, Hannibal is right on the river–and in some ways, this is the best part of Hannibal.  It’s such a powerful, historic river and for some reason I almost always get a slight thrill down my spine when I stand on its banks.  But you can never get away from the popular imagery of Twain or his characters–and I don’t think I ever got a real emotional connection with the author or his works.

Of course, on the other hand, we were awfully busy being goofy.  The place just asks for it!  Here I am, encouraging Wendy to whitewash the fence, as she’s showing that her pockets are empty.  In a brilliant piece of fundraising, we could have paid $10 for the privilege to write on the fence.  I only read a few of the scrawls and most of them were something on the level of “hey Mark, thanks for the books.”

And maybe this is the time to share what they’re doing right, rather than just talk about the weirdness.  In the last 15 years or so, the Mark Twain Home Foundation has opened gallery space in downtown with some fairly nifty exhibits.  They’re currently restoring Becky Thatcher’s house and will be adding an exhibit about 19th century childhood.  2010 has been declared the year of Mark Twain (100th anniversary of his death), and they’re working hard to raise $10 million for their endowment (insert round of applause for a museum thinking of endowments!).  The exhibits in the Visitor’s Center, next to the Boyhood Home, are also pretty good.  Enough clever ideas that I took a few photos to add to my exhibit idea file. 

But then we began to tour the Boyhood Home.  I don’t even know how to explain how weird it was.  Here–we’ll start with a picture.

Yes, that’s a statue of Mark Twain.  Playing with paper dolls.  Of his own characters.  The room is completely framed with plexiglass.  The only interpretation is that chalkboard in the back, featuring quotes from his autobiography.  Every single room had a statue and a chalkboard.  Almost every quote had something to do with him revisiting his childhood or how important Hannibal was to him.    The more you saw, the creepier they became.

 Yep, I’m pretty sure that’s cardboard cutout is Tom Sawyer.  Running away from his creator.  Or maybe I’m just becoming increasingly bitter at how these exhibits are assuming that visitors have no imagination at all.

In one of the last rooms, you just see Twain’s back.  I thought this was incredibly odd, until we got outside and looked up.  That’s when I realized what they were trying to do with that particular arrangement.

 It’s the ghost of Mark Twain, looking out at his beloved Hannibal.  Personally, I found this creepy and disrespectful and Just Not Right.  But perhaps I am an intellectual snob.

Here’s the thing: Mark Twain was all about making a buck.  He certainly did plenty during his career to capitalize on his success.  And yet, so much about this place is so wrong.  The line between fiction and history simply doesn’t exist.  Visitors aren’t challenged.  It’s fluff and popular culture and not much else.  Twain was one of the most important writers in the 19th century.  His books are still powerful, controversial and important.  And this place is none of that.  I visit literary historic sites to connect with the books I love.  I want to get a deeper sense of who the writer was and where those stories came from.  My Hannibal experience was the antithesis of my Mansfield experience.  But in some ways, maybe it all worked. I did leave with a deep desire to revisit Twain–to read his autobiography, revisit Tom and Huck, and maybe explore some of his other works as well.  I need to get back in touch with the real, after being surrounded by the fake.

For Twain fans, I highly recommend skipping Hannibal and getting to his home in Hartford, CT.  Unless you truly enjoy the tacky.

Here are a few more shots from our visit:

It’s a rotating root beer mug!  Where else?

 This sign about Mark Twain impersonators begs the question: how often is this a problem?

They don’t make it easy to have your photo taken with Tom and Huck.  Which seems very backwards compared to the rest of the place.

Part of my trip was spent at a friend’s house who is also a big kid lit fan.  She had stacks of books scattered throughout her adorable 1930s apartment (did I mention the doorknobs?  Quite possibly the cutest doorknobs ever!).  There are certain advantages to spending a few days with a fellow kidlit fan. 

#1–There are definitely more than a few conversations about books. 

#2–She has lots and lots of books, many of which are either on my mental or actual goodreads to-read list.  I think this has been the most I’ve read on a vacation in a very long time. 

The first night I was there, I picked up When the Sirens Wailed by Noel Streatfeild.  Streatfeild is best known for her Shoe books, but she wrote so much more.  I’ve now read most of her semi-autobiographical books, including A Vicarage Family and On Tour.  When the Sirens Wailed is about three children who are evacuated during the Blitz in World War II.  Though it’s definitely not my favorite Streatfeild, there are many things that I loved about it.  First, and I think most importantly, this book is about a poor family.  They’re barely making it–a simple thing like figuring out what to put their few things in for the journey is a very big deal. A complete meal or some candy is also a very big deal.   And though its subtle, you kinda get the parent’s frustration at the government assuming that all families had suitcases for everyone.  There are plenty of little details about rationing and food.  And when the kids return to London, the terror during the bombing feels infinitely real.  Published decades after the war, this is one of the last books Streatfeild published.  According to the brief blurb at the back, this book is partially based on “the vivid memories of her own experiences in the Women’s Voluntary Service.”

As soon as I finished Sirens, I realized that Wendy just might have Return to Gone-Away, a book my library doesn’t have (shame on them!).  After some intense searching, I found it and gulped it down.  This has got to be one of the ultimate fantasy novels for folks who love old houses.  Treasures abound inside!  Kids get stuck in a dumbwaiter (just like Katie John–is there a book featuring an old house where kids don’t get stuck in the dumbwaiter?).  Major decorating decisions are made.  And practically speaking, enough antique furniture and jewels are found to finance the whole thing.  (Jealous!  All we found was a very scary tissue box cover and a fabulous 1948 phone book).

As someone who is regularly fighting to preserve the old and unique, books like this make me extremely happy.  Every single person is in love with the Villa Caprice.  They work really hard at it and live with the quirks.  It just makes me very satisfied.  How I wish I was reading this in the spring of 2009, as I was renovating my own house.  Or even better–that I had read it as a kid and these books had been a part of my life for decades.

My final book during my sojurn at Wendy’s was The Keeping Days by Norma Johnston.  I ended up with very mixed feelings.  I know it’s based on the author’s grandmother’s life, but at the same time, it feels way too modern.  It’s almost issue-y.  But it was refreshing to have another book about the past where everything isn’t perfect–there’s anger and frustration.  I get so tired of the “rosy glow” of history–the people who say “I wish I lived back then.”   And it always seems like a lot of these folks’ ideas about the past are based on books–you know, the ones that leave out the not so good stuff.

I rounded out my kidlit vacation reading with the second half of the Octavian Nothing opus by M. T. Anderson.  This is one of those books that takes a bit of effort to get into, but once you’re there. . .  These two novels are quite possibly some of the best modern historical fiction I’ve read in a very long time.  Anderson explores all the complexities of race and the American Revolution through the very real eyes of Octavian.  This isn’t one of my favorite eras of history, but I recommend these books without reservation.  Skip Laurie Halse Anderson’s Chains (also about slaves in the time of the Revolution) and focus your attention on the other Anderson.

I also scored more than a few books at various antique shops and used book stores throughout the midwest.  Methinks it’s time to revisit Beverly Cleary later this summer. . .

What are you reading on summer vacation?

Today, I went to the source.  I walked the same rooms that Laura, Almanzo and Rose walked.  Interior photos weren’t permitted, but let me just say this: it’s one of my favorite historic houses ever.  It had so many wonderful personal touches, and their lives just oozed through the walls.  And can I just say here and now that I would love to have a man like Almanzo in my life?  He has got to be one of the handiest literary husbands ever (much preferable to Ewan MacDonald, L. M. Montgomery’s husband).  Laura was tiny, just 4’11”, so he built the counters so they would be comfortable for her.  She didn’t like to knead bread, so she requested he set the breadmaking counter between two windows, so she could gaze at the beautiful Missouri hills.  When they added to the house, he decided that she was taking too many steps between the kitchen and dining room, so created this great pass-through.  Can you tell I loved her kitchen especially?  She also had the most awesome wood stove EVER.

The house is a real hodge-podge, with rooms added gradually over the years.  You could definitely tell when they got to be a bit more successful, because the front room is gorgeous–and much nicer than the first part of the house.  They even have a little library nook!  There are such little details throughout–Almanzo’s collection of canes (that he made), his various lamps and nightstands made out of funky branches.  The lamp shades and needlework that Laura made.  Everything in the home was owned by the Wilder family.  The provenance and the collection (gotta get some museum nerd stuff in here somewhere!) is amazing.

She did some of her writing at this home and some at the rock house at the back of the property.  Her little desk is just charming, not too big, but lots of slots and such for notes and paper.  The first four books were actually written at the Rock House, built by Rose for her parents.  But her parents ended up moving back to the farm house in which they had put so much love and work.

But in some ways, the Rock House was my favorite.  First, there’s the view.

Then there’s all the wonderful 1920s touches–wonderful closets, light fixtures, and tile.  And I just love the door.  I’ve been looking for a porch light for my house, and I could totally picture their light at my house.

I ended my time at the Mansfield cemetery.  For a cemetery, it was actually kinda disappointing.  No big fabulous monuments or even any trees.  But it is where Laura, Almanzo and Rose rest.  And I will admit I got a bit choked up as I stood in front of Laura’s grave.

Laura, and after I visited her home, I do feel like I should call her Laura, lived a remarkable life.  She came from virtually nothing and created indelible images of the frontier experience.  There are two things we hear over and over at the museum, especially when kids are near our log cabins.  They either say “Look, it’s Abraham Lincoln’s cabin!”  (we will ignore how illogical this is.  They’re 8.  And we all know how great Texas is with Social Studies curriculum. . .). Or, they say “It’s just like Little House.”  Pretty amazing, isn’t it?

This is a place I have wanted to vist for many, many years.  It wasn’t quite the thrill that Prince Edward Island was, but it’s right up there.  These books have been a part of my life since I was very, very small.  My grandmother read them to me.  They were the first chapter books I read all by myself.  Today, I have all kinds of issues with these books, and they are no longer my favorites.  And yet, when it comes to kidlit history, they will always be first in my heart.

More pictures from my visit.

Front of the house--the final addition

The rocks of the chimney all came from their farm

Check out the mortar--all of it has some decorative element added to it

Though Mansfield is never featured in Wilder’s famous books, I’ve always been as interested in the places where authors create.  Edith Wharton did almost all of her writing in bed, gazing out the window at the Berkshires.  I might have taken an illegal photo of that view.  Louisa May Alcott wrote Little Women at a tiny, half moon desk in her room.  So tiny that I can’t imagine how she fit paper and herself at that desk.  William Faulkner wrote at a typewriter in his antebellum home in Oxford, Mississippi.  All of these places gave me a unique thrill–one I’m pretty sure I’m going to get again on Sunday.

This particular trip isn’t about just the one pilgrimage.  I’ll be communing with Lincoln in Springfield.  And I’ll be reconnecting with dear college friends in Kansas City. 

I am on the fence (freshly whitewashed, of course) about stopping in Hannibal.  My parents and I went there when I was around 14, and I thought it was a strange place then.  Becky Thatcher’s house?  But she was never real. . .  Somehow, I have a feeling it may be even odder to me now.  I’ll probably stop, but it remains to be seen if I’ll find it all amusing or horrifying.

Any of you planning any literary pilgrimages this summer?