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.

Again, I can probably blame some of the books I read as a kid.  Higher education was never really a question for Anne Shirley–after all, with the stigma of being an orphan, she had to have a way to make her way in the world just in case a husband wasn’t in her future.  Though Laura Ingalls doesn’t head to college, her sister Mary does go away to school.  And as a teacher, Laura certainly kept learning.  And so many of the books I love end before the main characters are college-aged, so it just wasn’t an issue.

I didn’t discover Carney Sibley until I was an adult, but I instantly loved the depiction of college life in Carney’s House Party.  Like the other “teenage and older,” Maud Hart Lovelace books, this one has also been reissued in a lovely package.  It includes an introduction by Melissa Wiley, best known for her prequels to the Little House books.  There are other reasons to love Carney–infinitely practical, she falls head over heels for a man that is wrong on paper but is totally right.  More than anything, this book is a romance.  But I’m not here to talk about romance.

Carney is an unusual girl for her time.  Unlike her classmates from Deep Valley High, she goes away for college–all the way to New England and Vassar College.  Among her classmates at Vassar, she’s unique in being “midwestern.”  Not a lot of families were willing to invest that kind of money in their daughter’s education.  Let’s give Carney a bit of context.

Oberlin College was basically the first college in the country to admit women–admitting 4 in 1837.  Vassar itself was founded in 1861, the second of the Seven Sisters (first was Mount Holyoke also in 1837 and last was Barnard in 1889).  But just because these colleges existed didn’t mean that the general public accepted higher education for women. . .

By the 1880s, more and more women were continuing with their education–and more and more women were struggling to figure out what to do with that knowledge.  Jane Addams has a wonderful passage in her memoir, Twenty Years at Hull House, that describes her frustration at having nothing to do–which ultimately led her to found Hull House and offer careers in social work to other educated women.

Around the turn of the century, active efforts began to dissuade women from pursuing higher education, especially alongside men..  The following is taken from the National Women’s History Museum online exhibit, “The History of Women and Education,” which I highly recommend if you want to find out more about this topic.  In the 19th century, many folks worried about the following:

1. Women would suffer nervous breakdowns if they were to compete in a man’s world.
2. They would be corrupted and lose their purity.
3. Their reproductive systems may be harmed.
4. A learned woman might be an unfit mother and wife.
5. Education would masculinize women. 
6. If men and women associated together in college they may begin to find each other less attractive.

Dr. Edward Clarke stated, “A woman’s body could only handle a limited number of developmental tasks at one time – that girls who spent to much energy developing their minds during puberty would end up with undeveloped or diseased reproductive systems”

So where does Carney fit in all of this?  Right smack dab in the middle!  In the midst of the house party, with all of its fun, Betsy reads an article from the Ladies Home Journal, one of the leading women’s magazines of the era.

“Here’s just what we want, an article on women’s colleges.”

It was written by a parent, and he didn’t like women’s colleges any too well.  “Our daughter has come back to us mentally broadened, but somehow we feel a loss in emotional qualities.  The head of the girl has been trained without the heart.”

“What nonsense!” Carney interrupted.  “You don’t go to college to get your heart trained.”

As she falls in love with Sam, it becomes clear that he wants her to continue school, because it will make her be a better wife and mother–another common belief at the time.  And maybe it does.  But at the same time, this modern feminist is a wee bit irked that Sam wants her to graduate, but there’s not much mention of Carney’s desires.

Right now, I’m reading Sister of the Bride by Beverly Cleary.  Set in the early 1960s, there are moments where I feel like I’m back in the 1910s with Carney.  Greg wants Rosemary to finish school.  Greg wants Rosemary to get good grades.  But what does Rosemary want?

For many of us, these kinds of thoughts and reactions and reasoning seems quaint and old-fashioned.  Of course women can learn alongside men!  Of course women should go to collge (in fact, for the first time, there are more women graduating from college than men).  And yet, it’s still awfully complicated.  How do you balance career and family?  This isn’t something I’ve personally had to struggle with yet, but I do wonder how I’ll balance career and kids when the time comes.

So, the conversation they had on  Carney’s porch really wasn’t that long ago.  And in some ways, we’re still having that conversation.  Here’s to Maud Hart Lovelace of reminding us where we fit in the scheme of things.

For many readers, I’m guessing Laura is the hook.  After all, almost everybody has heard of her.  Last year, I finally read Ghost in the Little House (a book filled with controversy for fans, but it made me really, really interested in Rose), so I was curious how Atkins would handle their complicated relationship in a way that wouldn’t completely alienate fans of Little House that know nothing about Rose.  My favorite poem in this section is the last one, “Truth.”  Because I am a complete sap, I might have teared up at these last lines:

Maybe one person can’t shape truth

into a story,

but handing orange notebooks back and forth,

a mother and daughter put ordinary girls into history.

And then we get to Madam C. J. Walker.  I first met her back when I was an intern at the Women’s Museum.  Her story was part of the central exhibit, and I helped unpack jars of her hair cream and other “miracle” products.  While writing my thesis, I got very, very interested in beauty culture, especially in the African American culture during the 1910s and 1920s.  And Madam Walker just kept popping up.  Around the same time, her great-great granddaughter was doing all kinds of things to tell that wonderful story.  But I don’t think it’s a story that’s really made it to the mainstream.  So to have her story in a book like this was really, really exciting.  Madam Walker did things that few women, especially black women, were doing at the turn of the century.  And we should all know about her and love her.

Atkins starts near the beginning of Walker’s story–when she was still poor and doing laundry and raising her daughter by herself.  And then, she gets tired of her hair breaking and falling out and makes a concoction to make her hair healthy.  There is much scholarship on the complexity of all of this, especially the relationship African American women have with their hair.  But for now, I’ll just share with you these lines, from the poem “Wonderful Hair Grower”:

She moves her hands in circles, casts a spell

over women who trust their heads to her hands.

Is the water warm enough?  Too hot?

Women coo with the pleasure of being asked

what they want.

And finally, we’re left with the story of Marie Curie and her daughter, Irene.  I must confess that I knew very little, about the Curies other than the really big basic thing: radioactivity that eventually killed them.  But now, I want to know much, much more.  Irene seems almost destined to become a scientist or perhaps it is just that science is the only way to become close to her mother.  The poem “Without School Bells” shows some of these complications:

Irene can’t worry about yawns or crushes.

She needs to comprehend

the laws of radiance, reflection, refraction.

Every question and answer binds her

to the one world her mother loves.

This book is not really a history book or biography but more an introduction to some amazing women and their stories.  So many people assume that history is dry: names, dates and facts.  And with the way textbooks are written, who can blame them?  But books like this are one way to show the emotion that goes hand in hand with history.  We forget that real people lived these events, and Atkins is bringing back some of this realness.

This is probably not the kind of book that kids will pick up for fun.  I can live with that.  My hope is that it’s one of those books that is used in classrooms to spark discussions and perhaps even some further reading.  If my junior historian book club was still in existence, we would totally read it.  Regardless, I will likely recommend this one to them.  Kudos to Atkins for bringing the emotion to history–and sharing just enough facts to make readers want to know more.

About a week ago, I picked up The Middle Moffat by Eleanor Estes.  I’ve read Estes in the past, but had never made it to the Moffats and really didn’t know much about them.  So I was thrilled to discover that the middle moffat is Jane Moffat.  And it’s another book set during World War I.  And it’s funny and sweet and charming.  The Oldest Inhabitant!  A wonderful Christmas scene, complete with a tradition I haven’t encountered before: burning letters to Santa because the ashes go straight to the North Pole.  A hysterical recital in which Jane loses her head.  Literally.  I really loved this little book.

Of course, The Middle Moffat is not the first book in the series, so I got The Moffats from the library last week.  Though I still loved it, I think I love Janey more.  I think it’s the name thing.  Of course, I’ll finish up the series soon.

But there’s one thing that makes this book stand out from a lot of other books of this era:  Mrs. Moffat is a working mother.  With the help of Madame (the best name for a dressmaker’s bust Ever), she is the leading dressmaker in their tiny town.  There are plenty of single parents in kidlit history, but I can’t think of too many other single moms.  Mrs. Pepper also comes to mind (Five Little Peppers and How They Grew).  It has been ages since I’ve read this, but a quick internet search makes me think she also worked as a seamstress.  Of course, the Pepper family is also rescued by a rich benefactor and Mrs. Pepper winds up marrying rich.  None of that happens in these books.

Money is definitely tight for the family, and this really comes through in The Moffats.    The owner of their home decides to sell it, and they have that looming “For Sale” sign hanging over their heads for most of the novel.    And times are tight–dresses aren’t being ordered quite as regularly.  There’s this wonderful scene between Janey and her mother:

“Are we poverty-stricken, Mama?” Jane asked, returning to the kitchen with her new sole comfortably in place.

“No, Janey.  Not poverty-stricken,” said Mama soberly and stroking Janey’s cheek, “not poverty-stricken, just. . .” 

“Rich, then?” asked Jane.

“No.  Not rich, either, nor well-to-do, just poor. . .” answered Mama.

This satisfied Jane, for she thought if they were poverty stricken she would have to go out into the cold and into the streets and sell matces like the little match girl.  But she knew from the way the silver coins left Mama’s hands when she was paying for the potatoes that fingers and coins parted company relunctantly.

It seems that in most books with single dads, there is an awesome housekeeper to help with running the household.  Cuffy from the Melendys instantly springs to mind.  But Mrs. Moffat doesn’t have any backup, and there are moments throughout the books where you get a sense of how she must have struggled.  Her husband died when Rufus, age 6, was just a baby.  We know that Mrs. Moffat grew up in New York, and though she worked as a dressmaker there as well, there are hints that she came from some wealth and connections.

For women that lost a husband around the turn of the last century, there simply weren’t many options.  Of course, one could always find a new husband.  But in the meantime, you had to think about food and shelter.  Only a few professions were open to women.  In most places, you couldn’t teach if you were married or had children.  Working outside the home was frowned upon if there were children at home.  It may not have even been possible–what with there being few childcare options and the enormous work that went into maintaining a house (not many convenience products to get food on the table!).  Some widows took in boarders, though that was likely only a possibility if you owned your home.  Some widows had to send their children to relatives or even an orphanage.  Most widows didn’t have any of what we would call “job skills” –remember this is the time when going to college was just starting to become common.  In women’s magazines of this era, there’s a huge push to buy life insurance.  I remember one article from some previous research where a woman lost everything when her husband died, but started selling life insurance so other women wouldn’t have to go through what she did.

All of this makes the Moffat story a bit more remarkable.  Though times are tight, they seem to be making it.  There’s enough money for some small luxuries.  Mrs. Moffat has a lot in common with the working single mothers of today, something we usually don’t find in books written in the 1940s and about the 1910s.  Quite frankly, she’s one of my new favorite fictional mothers.

Eleanor Estes did base these books on her childhood–she was Jane.  She started writing these stories while recovering from tuberculosis, something I find fascinating (I have an odd interest in that disease.  It’s a long story.  And yes, you can totally blame Ruby Gillis).  I wish I could find out more about her life, because from a women’s history persepctive, there’s a story there. 

No matter though, because there’s plenty of wonderful stuff in the stories we do have.

But things are getting better.  I think more and more people know about the grand dames of women’s history: Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton.  And if you’re lucky, sme folks will also have at least heard of Alice Paul (Iron Jawed Angels helped a lot with this).  But Carrie Chapman Catt?  Not so much.

So kudos to Nate Levin for getting her story out there in his book Carrie Chapman Catt: A Life of Leadership.  Though I’d certainly heard of her, this was definitely the first biography I’ve read.  And in doing a bit of poking around, there really aren’t many other options.  His book is written for middle-grade students and is packed with information.  Catt was a master organizer–she traveled throughout the US and internationally, speaking on suffrage.  She established state organizations to work for suffrage.  She led the national organizations–twice!  But she wasn’t part of the “radical” group, like Alice Paul, which may be part of the reason she has been neglected.  Not quite so exciting.  After the suffrage battle was won, she began the League of Women Voters and then began to work for peace.  I don’t think she ever stopped working.

Levin is doing his best to make her story better known.  On his website, which can be found here, is the entire text of his book, along with tons of links for more information.  I wish he had included a few sources or at least the link to this site in his book.  The book itself is obviously a labor of love–it appears to be self-published and is definitely a print on demand book.  It would benefit a lot from slightly slicker packaging–better image quality and all that we’ve come to expect in books.  The text itself is great–he does a wonderful job of explaining some very complex issues.

It’s a well-written, succint, fascinating biography of a woman we should all know more about.  Hopefully, we won’t have to wait too much longer.

Note: I received a review copy of this book from the author.

At any rate, this had a few effects on young Melissa:  1.  Getting a book of my very own with a cover on it was a Very Big Deal.  2.  I have no memories of cover art.  3.  If I find certain books at used book stores where the spine matches my memory, I have to buy them.  Because see, even though I had the complete All-of-a-Kind Family series, they completely fell apart and I’ve had to replace them as an adult.  And that’s not the only example.

This random method of acquiring books led to me discovering many favorites quite by accident.  But one of my favorites to discover were the Nancy Drew Case Files.  Even better?  The books where she and the Hardy Boys teamed up.  I read these books over and over again, until they quite literally fell apart.  I imagined myself being best friends with Nancy, doing a much better job of helping her solve mysteries than Bess and George. 

Some time in my adult life, I realized that  Carolyn Keene was just a pen name.  But I really don’t remember how I figured that out.  And at some point during my interest in children’s literature, I heard about the Stratemeyer Syndicate.  But it wasn’t until I finished Girl Sleuth: Nancy Drew and the Women Who Created Her by Melanie Rehak that I realized what a profound impact Nancy had on 20th century life.  People, you really need to read this book!

This is a book that doesn’t just examine the cultural impact of Nancy (which is pretty considerable), but how her story fits into 20th century women’s history.  The Statemeyer Syndicate, founded by Edward Stratemeyer, was the power behind many favorite series: the Bobbsey Twins, the Dana Girls, Tom Swift Jr., the Hardy Boys, and of course, Nancy.  Honestly, the Stratemeyer Syndicate sounds a bit mafia-like–and it was definitely a case that once you were in, you couldn’t talk about it and you were never completely free.  Stratemeyer  hired a team of ghost writers and did everything he could to keep that quiet.  When he died, just after creating the character of Nancy and outlining the first 3 books in the series, his daughters carried on the tradition of secrecy.

The women that were truly responsible for the Nancy we know and love was Harriet Stratemeyer Adams, head of the syndicate, and Mildred Wirt Benson, the ghost writer for most of the books.  In the 1930s, they were women that did it all–balancing work and family in a way that we still struggle to today.  Nancy, too, was a part of this “new woman” trend–the women who went to work during WWI, started voting, and were no longer quite so reliant on a man to take care of them.

Rehak seamlessly blends the back-story with the greater context of 20th century history.  It truly boggles the mind to think how many kids read stories created by the Stratemeyer Syndicate.  I honestly can’t think of another company that had such an impact on generations of children–even though not many people really knew the Syndicate was behind so many best-sellers.  She explores the ins and outs of the updates, the different writers, the changes–it’s fascinating stuff.

Though I wouldn’t necessarily put the Nancy Drew books in the category of “kidlit history,” her character grew and developed with the changing times.  How many other characters in literature have new books written about them for 70 years?  The Nancy of 1930 isn’t quite the Nancy of 1988, but she’s still familiar to generations of readers.  And she’s still incredibly popular today.  Just doing a bit of web research, I ran across this website–there’s a convention coming up next year.

So, were you a Nancy fan?  When did you first read them?  And have you gone back and read them again?

Now, try finding engaging history for kids that’s about Texas but not about the above subjects.  It’s hard—really, really hard.  Though we certainly have frontier-y stuff at the museum, it’s not the majority of the museum.  Our earliest structure dates to 1847, after our Republic days were over.  We’re really all about that shift from rural to urban that begins to happen around the turn-of-the-century.  But it’s so hard to find good books that talk about this time period for children.  So, I borrow from other states like Minnesota (Betsy-Tacy) and Utah (The Great Brain).  And it works, but it’s not Texas.  And I am a bit biased about Texas.

When I first heard about The Evolution of Calpurnia Tate by Jacqueline Kelly, I was intrigued but cautious.  The jacket copy reads “The summer of 1899 is hot in Calpurnia’s sleepy Texas town, and there aren’t a lot of good ways to stay cool.”  I become more intrigued–something set at the turn of the century?  Seriously?  But will it actually be any good?  There are so many pitfalls in historical fiction.  So many ways in which I could be disappointed.    But I had heard good things from people I trusted.  It became our museum book club’s first selection (partially at my insistence, but they agreed!)  So I started to read.

Folks, I am completely head over heels in love with Calpurnia.  It is an almost perfect work of historical fiction.  Calpurnia becomes curious about the world around her–in particular, the grasshoppers.  Her curiosity takes her to the library for Origin of the Species, and the librarian refuses to give it to her.  And then she realizes that right under her nose is another naturalist/scientist–her grandfather.  Together, they explore the land, make observations, continue experiments with pecan liquor (this really made me giggle), and discover what just might be an unknown species of plant.  In the mean time, there’s a lot of humor, a wonderful family, and great historical details.  The kinds of little things that thrill me in so much of kidlit history–Calpurnia’s first experience with coca-cola, the first car seen in that tiny town, the first telephone.  These are the kind of details that aren’t Big Events–like, say, The Fall of the Alamo–but are events that readers are much more likely to connect to.  And possibly fall in love.

But the reason why I am still so thrilled about this book, even though I finished it over a week ago, is that it is a wonderful introduction to some of the key ideas of women’s history.  Unlike some other books (that post is linked to above), this book sums up the challenges of being a woman at the turn of the century without being heavy-handed about it.  There is Calpurnia’s mother–who with seven children and a large household to manage–is known to take more than a few swigs a day of Lydia Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound, “known to be the Best Blood Purifier for Women” and also known to be mostly alcohol.  But if I had seven kids and was stuck in a small town in Central Texas during a drought. . . yep, I’d be drinking something as well.  There’s Lula, Calpurnia’s best friend, who is really good at all the “womanly skills” such as sewing and cooking and such.  Lula does not understand Calpurnia’s interest in bugs and such–and only slightly understands why three of Calpurnia’s brothers always want to walk her home (another giggle scene).

But most of all, there’s Calpurnia.  She realizes she wants to be a scientist.  She very timidly begins to express this idea to some, but not all.  Meanwhile, her mother is upping the lessons on sewing and knitting and cooking, which frustrates Calpurnia to no end.  But she does it, because she knows she has to, even as she begs to spend more time with her Grandfather.  She thinks, rather hopes, that her parents understand.  At Christmas, she writes:

I peeled back the stiff paper to reveal the word Science printed in curlicues.

“Oh,” I exclaimed.  Such magnificence!  But even better than the solid reality of the book in my hand was the gladsome fact that my mother and father at last understood the kind of nourishment I needed to survive.  I beamed at my parents with excitement.  They smiled and nodded.  I ripped the paper off to reveal the whole title:  The Science of Housewifery.

“Oh!” I stared in befuddlement.  It made no sense to me.  What could it mean?  Was the writing even English?  The Science of Housewifery, by Mrs. Josiah Jarvis.  This couldn’t be right.  My hands turned to wood. . .

Conversation trailed off, and the room became silent except for the monotonous thwacking of J. B. riding his rocking horse in the corner.  All eyes were on me.  . . .

She said, “What do you say, Calpurnia?”

What does Calpurnia say?  What could I say?  That I wanted to throw the book–no better than kindling–into the fireplace?  That I wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all?  That at that moment I could have done violence, that I could have punched them all in the face?  Even Granddaddy.  Yes, even him.  Encouraging me the way he had, knowing that there was no new century for me, no new life for this girl.  My life sentence had been delivered by my parents.

 Calpurnia’s eyes open to the world around her, but her world hasn’t changed.  She’s caught between what she wants to be and what she is expected to be.  Like most women that came of age during that time period.  The ending is not wrapped up in a pretty bow–Calpurnia is frustrated.  There’s no afterword, fast-forwarding a few years to show her at the University.  Her life is in flux.  She accepts her path, but is not resigned to it.  She accepts it because she doesn’t have much choice.

So often, in historical fiction with a “spunky” or “modern” heroine, the heroine winds up defying the odds.  She’s one of the ones that breaks through all of those historical barriers.  With Calpurnia, you just don’t know what happens to her.  And I love that.  That uncertainty can start such wonderful conversations about college education for women, suffrage, careers, etc.  In a way that kids can hopefully connect with, without such topics being an Issue that requires a Historical Note.  So yeah, I love this book and would love it even if it wasn’t set in Fentress, Texas.  But that setting is a wonderful, delightful bonus.

So, Jacqueline Kelly, I know you’re still basking in the glow of the Newbery Honor Award.  And I’m thrilled for you!  But get back to work and keep writing.  We need more books like this.  They don’t have to be about Calpurnia (and a big part of me hopes that things are left ambiguous).  But we need more historical fiction like this.  A lot more.

In the past couple of weeks, I’ve been doing a lot more reading than usual.  Due to the bizarre combination of a miserable cold, the holidays, lots of accumulated comp time, and a week of furlough, I haven’t worked a full 8-hour day since December 18.  Please don’t hate me.  But this whole not going into the office thing leaves a lot of spare time for other things.  Like books.  So I turned to my enourmous To-Read list on Goodreads and started requesting books from the library.

In the midst of the stack, I read two very different historical fiction books for children: The Green Glass Sea by Ellen Klages and The Hope Chest by Karen Schwabach.  The Green Glass Sea is the story of two girls growing up during World War II.  At Los Alamos, as their parents race to create the atomic bomb.  The Hope Chest is the story of two girls who witness the end of the fight for women’s suffrage in Tennessee. 

GGS is almost a perfect book.  The characters ring true and natural.  It tells a complex story, but does it through Dewey and Suze’s eyes—not the all-knowing narrator who already knows exactly how this whole gadget thing works out.  I learned all kinds of little details (how does a kid apply to college when his high school doesn’t exist) and bigger stories too (women in science).  And at the end of the book, I wanted to know more about Dewey and Suze, but also the history of Los Alamos.  Klages provides a few, selected sources at the end, which is exactly enough to keep the interest going.

Almost all of my pet peeves in historical fiction happened in HC.  I began it with such high hopes–an older sister has taken the money given to her for a hope chest and bought a car instead.  And then she heads north to work for women’s suffrage.  Younger sister discovers that her parents have been hiding all these letters from big sis so she runs away.  And that’s where it all went down hill.  Violet gets to New York and gets lost.  She becomes friends with a younger African American girl (because that happened on a regular basis back then).  They hop a train to DC, meet an anarchist who happens to be her sister’s boyfriend, and then head to Tennessee.  Violet becomes a spy for the antis (what, they don’t notice an 11 year old hanging out?)  She just happens to be involved in the final crucial voting.  Every single person related to the end of the suffrage movement parades across the pages.  Oh, and there’s segregation issues and anarchist stuff and well, just about every historical issue possible in 1919/1920.  Seriously?  It’s just all way too convenient.  And doesn’t feel real at all.

My biggest issue with this book, and others like it, is that it felt like a history lesson.  Schwabach was doing everything she could to make sure it was a PC book that covered all the major issues.  Her author’s note and references at the back is huge–she recommends a couple of books for every single historical theme, even if they were just minor in the course of the story.  Schwabach was trying way too hard to teach history–rather than hinting at a few things, hoping to spark interest that kids will later follow.  It’s a complex time and a complex story, but there was no grace in this book.

Perhaps I’m being extra hard on this book for two reasons:  I read it just after reading Green Glass Sea and this is my favorite time period.  To my knowledge, there aren’t any factual errors, but I did have to suspend my disbelief on a regular basis.  Unfortunately, it seems like there are a lot more books out there that are like The Hope Chest, with its heavy-handed history, than the beautiful, graceful Green Glass Sea. 

Which all leads me back to why I think kidlit history is so important in inspiring future history nerds.  Often, you don’t even realize that you’re learning about history.  It’s just a good story.  There are no author notes at the back, explaining the details or historical events that might have flown right over your head. The author isn’t trying too hard to get all the details in there–because they’re writing about their own experiences.   And somehow, the history just seeps in.  It rings true and feels right, and you’re not wasting time questioning the historical details.  And though there aren’t a list of resources for “further reading,” kids can discover more if they want to.

Or, they might turn into someone like me–someone who doesn’t discover their love of history until they reach college.  And in looking back realizes that it’s been there all along, in the books I read over and over again.

So many of the other exhibits celebrated the artistry and dedication of quilters.  But we wanted to talk about that other part of quilting and domestic arts in the 19th century–the fact that sometimes you do things because you have to, not because you want to.  Part of our exhibit is a collection of what we call “quote cubes.”  One side has a question and the other 5 sides have quotes, sometimes sharing similar views and sometimes differing.  I knew that it was going to be hard to find lots of letters or diary entries complaining about sewing.  It seems that if things like that are mentioned in those kinds of accounts they’re usually bragging about their latest accomplishment, not whining about it.  Then I thought of who is most likely to complain–kids forced to do handwork, because it’s expected.  Because it’s what their mothers did.  Because their mothers need their help.  And where else can you get the voice of a child but in children’s literature?

After combing through several books, I found some wonderful quotes that help fight that stereotype of the 19th century–that all women sewed and that they all liked it.  Today, it seems that we are always insisting on our differences; we are not all the same.  But when we talk about the people of the past, they’re usually lumped together–huge generalizations and assumptions are made.  We have to have other voices in the mix–and these books are certainly one way to make the story richer.

Check out some of these quotes that we used in our exhibit:

“I know I don’t sew nicely–I’ll never, never sew nicely.  I wish I was in heaven and you and your everlasting sewing in hell, Aunt Emily!”  Lucinda did not intend this to be the damning thing it sounded.  She had wanted to place Aunt Emily and herself as far apart as possible.  –Ruth Sawyer, Roller Skates  (This is one of my very favorites!)

She believed the devil must have invented a needle.  From the moment you first learned to thread one, and knot the thread, it had you plagued to death.  She hated-hated-hated sewing-this kind of sewing!  — Lucinda in Roller Skates by Ruth Sawyer

‘Golly!  I could do that, too!’ said Tom.  ‘Girls think they’re so smart with their tiny stitches.  Where’s a needle?’

‘Me too!’ said Warren, and before Clara knew what was happening to her precious quilt, the boys had taken possession, and the three erstwhile adventurers were making riotous scrolls and roses all over it.  –Caddie Woodlawn, Carol Ryrie Brink

There’s no scope for imagination in patchwork.  It’s just one little seam after another and you never seem to be getting anywhere.  –Anne of Green Gables, L. M. Montgomery

“Betsy,” scolded Carney, “you ought to learn to sew.”

“I despise sewing.  I’m going to buy my dresses in Paris.”

“But you ought to know how to embroider at least.  There’s so much sentiment in a gift you embroider. . . “

“Nobody would be glad to get anything I embroidered.”   –Maud Hart Lovelace, Betsy was a Junior

‘How nice my handkerchiefs look, don’t they?  Hannah washed and ironed them for me, and I marked them all myself,’ said Beth, looking proudly at the somewhat uneven letters which had cost her such labor.  –Little Women, Louisa May Alcott

When some historians don’t like to use oral histories, I know it will be a long time before historians begin to consider these books as another kind of primary source.  But at my museum, we certainly do.  I know that Maud Hart Lovelace might not have ever had that exact conversation with her friends about sewing, but I have confidence that she certainly felt that way about sewing.  And she probably wasn’t the only one either.  But these voices addanother layer to quilts–you’re not just looking at the object, but you’re thinking more carefully about the people behind the object.  Did they enjoy their work?  Was it a burden?  Did they teach others?  How old were they when they began to sew?  Looking for these particular nuggets helped me to realize how rich in details these books are.  They’re a wonderful source, ready to be mined.