What’s left out. . .

I know the tagline at the top of my blog says “Everything I need to know about history, I learned through children’s literature.”  And I stand by my claim that my reading of certain books (over and over and over again) helped form my love of history.  But in reading books like A Little Princess as an adult, part of me just feels icky.  Because I know that there’s a whole other side to India’s history that Burnett would never have even thought about.

Honestly, I don’t know much about Indian history–I’m almost ashamed to admit how much I learned after reading most of this wikipedia article.   But as I was reading Princess, there was always this nagging feeling in the back of my mind–“You’re being enchanted by this glamourous vision of India, but all of this really sucked for the Indian people.”  Sara’s father, who she loved so much, was one of those white men who occupied India–and later profited from its resources.  Diamond mines, as glamorous as they sound, are horrible places to work.  Even today.

So I read these wonderful passages, and part of me was enthralled.  Who wouldn’t be, with descriptions such as this?

She did not know what being rich meant.  She had always lived in a beautiful bungalow, and had been used to seeing many servants who made salaams to her and called her “Missee Sahib,” and gave her her own way in everything.  She had had toys and pets and an ayah who worshipped her, and she had gradually learned that people who were rich had these things.

Replace the word “servants” with “slaves” and “ayah” with “mammy,” and you could very well have a book about life in the ante-bellum South.  There’s the same hot climate from which the wealthy must escape.  And perhaps this book has survived because its about India, a story in history few knew about, rather than about the American South, of which most know at least the basics.

But I digress.  Am I blaming Burnett for not being more balanced towards the Indian people?  Not at all-she wrote about what she knew.  And in this time period, few thought that what was happening in India was wrong.  Quite frankly, the way she wrote about India always made me curious about their culture.  Ram Dass is such a fabulous character.  He is human–well, as human as a fairy godmother-type can be!–which is more than we can say about most minority characters created during this era. 

But to really know about history, we certainly can’t rely solely on the images that children’s literature have placed in our heads.  I know that Laura Ingalls Wilder is frequently cited as being insensitive to Native Americans.  She’s not insensitive per se, but she’s not balanced either.  And I understand concerns about her books–they are so popular and I know that most readers won’t ever try to find out more and get the bigger story.  She is indeed creating ideas in children’s heads about the past–ideas that aren’t entirely right.

And this is part of the reason I’m championing, in my own small way, the genre of Kidlit History.  For those books written in the time–that some classify as historical fiction, but were written before there was the distance to properly assess the big picture.  There are still plenty of lessons in them, but we must acknowledge that they are biased to that one author’s experience.  Little House is not the only story of the pioneer experience, though it seems that some folks believe that it is. 

My childhood reading had extraordinary bias in it.  Almost all of the books I read were about white, middle or upper class, protestant females.  Yet, as a historian, one of my specialities is African American history.  I can’t trace that interest back to childhood reading.  But I don’t have to.  My hope for kids that read kidlit history is that this is a first step into a life-long love of history.  So, if they don’t figure out that colonial India wasn’t all about being pampered until they’re adults, that’s okay.  When they do, though, there’ll be a spark of recognition as they realize they’re discovering the rest of Sara’s story.

Isn’t that romantic?

The Minnesota Post recently made a list of best Dynamic Duos–in movies, literature, history, etc.  And on it, much to the pleasure of the Betsy-Tacy Society and other BT fans is Betsy and Joe as “Literary Romantic Couples”–alongside some couples that are definitely not found in children’s literature.

And though I certainly adore the fact that Betsy and Joe are listed–after all, the last chapter of Betsy and the Great World is one of the greatest romantic cliffhangers of all time, I can’t help but think of some of the other great couples of kidlit history.  In no particular order:

Ma and Pa Ingalls.  She follows him across the midwest, each time hoping for a better life, making homes in places that must have been very, very lonely.  Until she puts her foot down.  He plays his fiddle, makes jokes, and fiercely loves his family.  As a kid, they never would have been on the list.  As an adult, I admire how they stuck together, never argued in front of the kids, and both made compromises for each other.

Anne and Gilbert.  Though they ultimately became a somewhat boring couple in the later books, the early stuff is fabulous.  From the teasing and the competition to pushing each other when both have college dreams deferred, it’s an incredibly satisfying friendship–at least for Anne.  Gilbert loves her from the beginning, and it is sometimes very frustrating how long it takes Anne to see what’s right in front of her nose.  But he’s always there–rescuing her and waiting patiently. 

Betsy and Joe.  Though mentioned above, they deserve their own paragraph.  Betsy, daughter of one of the world’s greatest families, falls in love with orphan Joe.  And there are lots of adjustments to be made, mis-understandings, the usual heartache in young love.  But the misunderstanding almost kill the reader as they wait and wait for what has to happen.  And when it does!  Again, one of the best romantic cliffhangers and resolutions Ever.

Miss Allen, the Library Lady and Charlie.  The sisters of All-of-a-Kind Family already love the Library Lady, as she is the one with the books.  And Charlie is the mysterious peddler that works with their father who brings them treats.  By accident, the girls bring them together again–discovering  a tragic love story that was rightunder their noses.  So satisfying–and a wonderful realization of childhood fantasies.  What kid wouldn’t want to help out some of their favorite adults in that way?

Mary, Dickon and Colin.  Sometimes, love triangles happen.  And though the kids in The Secret Garden don’t really get to that part of life where romance really takes off, there is definitely some jealousy going on for Colin and Dickon.  Both fall in love with Mary, for very different reasons.  But perhaps the true romance here is the garden itself and the story behind it.  Sigh.

So, what am I leaving out?  Any other fabulous romances?  And another question: how did these stories shape your own childish thoughts about romance?

When I was a kid, reading through Montgomery, I had this idea that true romance took years to develop.  Seriously, how long did it take Anne and Gilbert to finally get together?  And then there’s the story of Leslie Moore–talk about depressing.  And all the other minor characters throughout her novels and short stories–people that had to wait 10, 20 years to be with the one they loved.  Yikes! 

Or what about the unfortunate idea that the man you’re really meant for will marry your sister?  I am still not over the whole Jo/Laurie/Amy thing.  Luckily, I had no sisters.

So while there are some great models, there are some truly frightening romantic scenarios in kidlit.  Perhaps I should blame my childhood reading on my very practical attitude towards romance.  Even as I continue to believe that my Joe is out there somewhere. . .

Cold and hot

16085217When thinking about extreme weather, the kidlit fan naturally turns to The Long Winter.  The story of one of the worst winters ever just doesn’t seem to lose its appeal.  I know plenty of people that pick it up and reread whenever they’re snowbound.  Chapter titles like “We’ll Weather the Blast,” “Cold and Dark,” and “Not Really Hungry,” probably put any current snowstorms in perspective.  The imagery of it all–the snow taller than your head, twisting hay for fuel, and storms that seem to come out of nowhere and never end certainly stuck with me.  But I can’t understand cold like Wilder describes.  Check out this description:

It was terribly cold outside the bedcovers.  But the roaring and shrilling of the storm would not let Laura sleep again.  The frosted nails in the roof above her were like white teeth.  She lay under them only a few minutes before she followed Ma downstairs.

The fire was burning brightly in the cookstove, and in the front room the heater’s side was red-hot, but still the rooms were cold and so dark that it did not seem to be datytime.

Laura broke the ice on the water in the water pail.

Ice!  Inside the house!  Yikes!  But I’m a Texas girl, so the idea of snow over my head and temps of 40 below are just hard for me to really comprehend.  It almost doesn’t seem real, though I know it was–and still is.

However, last night, while reading Thimble Summer by Elizabeth Enright there was a description of summer’s heat that I definitely understood.  At the very beginning, the oppressive heat is a presence: “Garnet thought this must be the hottest day that had ever been in the world.”  With a temperature of 110, I have felt her pain (unlike the 40 below above).  Later, in the same chapter, there is this (another bedroom related scene):

Garnet said good night and tiptoed up the stairs to her room under the eaves.  It was so hot there that the candle in its holder had swooned till it was bent double. . . . Garnet blew out the candles and lay down.  It was too hot even for a sheet.  She lay there, wet with perspiration, feeling the heat like heavy blankets and listening to the soft thunder, the empty thunder, that brought no rain.

This is weather I know.  And though I thank God every summer day for the miracle of air conditioning, I have certainly experienced heat like this.  One summer, we returned from a glorious vacation in Colorado (where the high had been about 75) to a house with no air conditioning.  That was the summer it didn’t dip below 90 at night for a month.   It was a very rude return.

There’s a list of questions that we get over and over again at the museum.  One of them is “What did they do before air conditioning?”  (for some reason, heat is never really a question here in Texas!)  When I’m feeling sarcastic, I say “They were hot.”  And though that’s true, you see some of the common ways of coping in Thimble Summer.  They go swimming, they do as many chores as possible in the morning, they cook less.  And when the rain finally comes–they enjoy it and get thoroughly soaked!

A lot of writers gloss over the weather and nature descriptions.  And quite frankly, I’m one of those readers that usually skims over such descriptions.  But when it comes to weather extremes, sometimes you pause just a minute to shiver with the cold or wipe your brow from the heat.  But then, it’s on to the rest of the story.

Any other memorable extreme weather moments in kidlit?

The best presents. . .

I admit it–my favorite part of Christmas just might be presents.  And it’s not so much the receiving (though don’t get me wrong–I do love receiving), but the giving.  It’s the joy in finding just the right thing, something that is more than the sum of its parts, and seeing the reaction when it hits its mark.

Below, in no particular order, are some of my very favorite gift-giving incidents in kidlit history.  Most of them occur around Christmas, but not all of them.  Most of these scenes I first read as a child, and they certainly stuck in my head–particularly the first one. . .

Puffed Sleeves!  Anne of Green Gables by L. M. Montgomery.  Anne finally has a group of friends, but Matthew notices there’s something different between her and her friends: she’s not dressed like the other girls.  So, he does his very best to get her a fashionable dress for Christmas, first braving the store (and winding up with rakes and brown sugar) and then enlisting the help of Rachel Lynde.  And Anne’s reaction is wonderful to see:  “Breakfast seems so commonplace at such an exciting moment.  I’d rather feast my eyes on that dress.  I’m so glad that puffed sleeves are still fashionable.  It did seem to me that I’d never get over it if they went out before I had a dress with them.”

Why I love this scene:  First, what girl hasn’t wanted something fashionable, only to be denied because it’s not “practical”?  And then, lovely Matthew comes along and does it anyway.  Anne has been so lonely for so long, and Matthew’s gift is so thoughtful.  She was already a part of the family, but this is the first time she gets a gift where others are thinking of what she wants.  Quite a change for an orphan!  And yes, part of me still wants a dress with puffed sleeves.

The feast in A Little Princess (Frances Hodgson Burnett).  Though not a Christmas gift, I can’t help but include it.  Sara and Becky are in deep trouble, and the Magic won’t save them.  But they awaken one morning and the attic has been transformed: “In the grate there was a glowing, blazing fire; on the hob was a little brass kettle hissing and boiling; spread upon the floor was a thick, warm crimon rug; before the fire a folding chair, unfolded, and with cushions on it; by the chair a small white cloth, and upon it spread small covered dishes, a cup, a saucer, a teapot; on the bed were new warm coverings and a satin-covered down quilt; at the foot a curius wadded silk robe, a pair of quilted slipper and some books.  The room of her dream seemed changed into fairyland . . . ‘It does not–melt away.'”

Why I love this scene: On the magical level, this is right at the top.  Yummy food and beautiful things!  I am amazed that neither she nor Becky heard a thing, but then, I guess that’s part of the magic.  Another moment where an orphan realizes she’s not alone.  Plus, the makeover of the attic sounds delightful–it’s like an early home makeover show.

Jo’s HairLittle Women by Louisa May Alcott.  Marmee must rush off to tend to their sick father.  Money is tight, and so Jo sells her hair.  She insists it was the best thing to do in the situation, but does confess: “I felt queer when I saw the dear old hair laid out on the table and felt only the short, rough ends on my head.  It almost seemed as if I’d an arm or a leg off.  The woman saw me look at it, and picked out a long lock for me to keep.  I’ll give it to you, Marmee, just to remember past glories by; for a crop is so comfortable I don’t think I shall ever have a mane again.”

Why I love this scene:  Yes, Jo makes a big sacrifice for her family.  But the real reason I love this scene is the series of exclamations from her family when she reveals her shorn head.  Best line in the book: “Oh Jo, how could you?  Your one beauty!”  Makes me laugh every time.  And could anyone but a sister get away with that?

The Brass BowlHeaven to Betsy by Maud Hart Lovelace.  Mrs. Ray falls in love with a brass bowl and insists that her husband buy it for her.  Mr. Ray keeps insisting that he would never give her such a gift.  The entire family visits the brass bowl and insists that it’s right for Mrs. Ray.  On Christmas Eve, he caves, but the bowl is gone.  Panic sets in.  But on Christmas morning, the brass bowl is there–because Mrs. Ray bought it for herself!

Why I love this scene:  There’s almost a domino effect as each family member becomes convinced that the Brass Bowl is the Perfect Gift.  But Mr. Ray stands strong–until that last minute Christmas Eve panic sets in.  I just love how Mrs. Ray takes matters into her own hands.  It’s a scene that makes me giggle and rings oh so true.  On this reread, I also couldn’t help but love the following lines:   “‘I have no intention of buying it,’ Mr. Ray answered.  ‘I’m going to gie you a personal present, not a house present.’  ‘I love this new house so much that it’s practically me.”  My sentiments exactly, Mrs. Ray.

As You Like It Besty and Joe by Maud Hart Lovelace.  “It was proper for a boy to give a girl only books, flowers, or candy.  It would be proper for Betsy to give Joe nothing more.”  And so she purchases the red, limp-leather edition of As You Like It.  Alas, the course of true love never did run smooth.  Tony asks Betsy to the New Year’s Eve dance first, and Betsy and Joe fight over it: “Either you’re my girl or you’re not.”  He tosses her present at her.  She opens it and realizes it is the exact same edition of As You Like It.  “Inside he had written ‘We’ll fleet the time carelessly as the did in the golden world.’ But Betsy knew he had written that before he knew that she was going to the dance with Tony.  She put her face into her hands and began to cry.”

Why I love this scene:  Well, it’s certainly not because it’s as happy and joyful as some of the other gift giving scenes.  But for an old-fashioned romantic like me?  Well, it’s perfect.  Not quite on the level of the O. Henry story, “Gift of the Magi,” it still has to mean something extra special to give the exact same present to each other.  If nothing else, it’s another sign that Betsy and Joe are made for each other.

Trinket’s First Tree  Roller Skates by Ruth Sawyer.  Lucinda realizes that her little friend Trinket has never had a Christmas tree.  And one can’t just have a tree–but a party and presents too.  So she works extra hard to earn money in December and invites the whole neighborhood to surprise Trinket.  She is completely captivated.  “There is always one Christmas that belongs to you more than any other–belongs by right of festival and those secret feelings that are never spoken aloud.  This Christmas belonged to Lucinda in that way, and I think it belonged to many of her friends.”

Why I love this scene:  Lucinda is only 10, and it may be a bit hard to believe that she’s so thoughtful.  But I love the way the ornaments are almost all handmade and everyone joins in.  And it’s so easy to imagine the look on Trinket’s face when she first sees the tree.  What magic!  It’s not so much the gift, but the experience–they’ve made a wonderful memory.

Mr. Edwards as Santa Claus Little House on the Prairie by Laura Ingalls Wilder.  No snow and a practically flooding creek means that Santa won’t be able to get to the Ingalls family in time for Christmas.  Luckily, Mr. Edwards meets Santa in Independence and is able to bring the gifts after all.

Why I love this scene:  First, it’s really funny.  When you read again as an adult, you sense the worry that Ma and Pa have that Christmas won’t happen as planned for his kids.  And when Mr. Edwards arrives, the story is told with plenty of ( )s and interjections and questions–exactly the kind of questions any kid would ask about Santa.  For example, when Mr. Edwards says he meets Santa, Laura asks: “‘In the daytime?’ She hadn’t thought that anyone could see Santa Claus in the daytime.  No, Mr. Edwards said; it was night, but light shone out across the street from the saloons.”  Giggle.  The presents themselves are simple–a tin cup, peppermint candy, a heart-shaped cake, and a penny.  “Think of having a cup and a cake and a stick of candy and a penny.  There had never been such a Christmas.”  What puts this tale over the top for me though is Mr. Edwards–that man knows how to tell a story and keep kids believing in Santa.

Originally, I set out to find 10, but at 7, I ran out of steam.  Do you have a favorite scene that I’ve left out?  What is the greatest kidlit history gift of all time?


This afternoon, whilIMG_2116e attempting to be domestic, I caught up with one of my favorite NPR programs, This American Life.  A few weeks ago, they aired a new episode called “The Book That Changed Your Life.”  How could I not listen?  The entire show was fantastic, but I was particularly intrigued by Act 4: Little Sod Houses for You and Me.  A longtime fan of the Little House books travels to De Smet for the first time.  She interviews locals, tours the homesites, and attends the annual pagent.  It was a vacation that sounds quite a bit like the type of vacation I take on a semi-regular basis.

And then I realized–one of the best parts of being a fan of kidlit history–these books that are based on the author’s life–is that you can see the “real” places.  It’s a very special way of connecting with fiction.  How much easier is it to picture Laura on the prairie after you yourself have been on the prairie?  How do Betsy and Tacy’s dinner on the bench change when you realize they had the best seat in the entire neighborhood?  How do Montgomery’s descriptions of the colors of PEI change when you’ve also seen the red roads and blue sea?  

When I was a kid, I begged and begged and begged to go to Prince Edward Island.  The love Montgomery has for this Island comes through so strongly in the books, I had to see what all the fuss was about.  There were multiple conversations about how to make the trip work, but PEI is a very long way from Texas.   My college graduation trip was to Boston, and we even tried to make it work from there, but it was still just too far.  But this did allow me to have one of my first real literary pilgrimages–we headed to Concord.  I dipped my feet in Walden Pond.  And Orchard House, where Louisa May Alcott wrote Little Women at a very tiny desk, was at the very top of my list of must-sees. 

Orchard House has a unique challenge when it comes to literary pilgrims–though Alcott set her classic at Orchard House, Beth died before the Alcott family ever moved in.  And for those that only know the fiction and not the history, it can come as a bit of a shock.  The tour guides do a wonderful job of pointing out the things that are “just like the book” and where history and fiction diverge.  I’ve been back one other time to Concord and toured Orchard House yet again.  The Alcotts are such an interesting family, and I’m glad that the site hasn’t fallen into the trap of being all Little Women all the time. 

The next summer, I found myself on Prince Edward Island with one of my dearest friends.  I had submitted a paper to a Montgomery conference, and it was accepted.  When we finally crossed the bridge from Nova Scotia to Prince Edward Island (and I do mean finally–the trip did not have a smooth beginning!), chills ran up and down my spine.  We did all the expected Anne things–toured Green Gables (which felt odd–and far too commercial), saw the musical (can’t really recommend it), drank raspberry cordial.  But my favorite part of the trip was just driving the tiny country roads, walking along the ocean, and also seeing the Homestead.  The house where Montgomery grew up is no longer standing–all that’s left is the foundation.  And the views and the paths and the land where Montgomery became a writer.  This was my favorite spot on the Anne pilgrimage, and it was the spot where I felt closest to Montgomery’s stories.

Last summer, I headed to Mankato, Minnesota with a few hundred other fans to do all things Betsy-Tacy.  There were more than a few folks who got misty-eyed at seeing Betsy and Tacy’s house for the first time.  After all, these are places we’ve read about for years and there they are–three-dimensional and real and beautiful.  And they may not be quite what we pictured in our heads, but there’s a magic about seeing this place you’ve read about.  For the most moving spot was not Betsy’s house, but the Carnegie Library.  This was the spot where she really began growing up — she explored the world through the books in that library.  And walking up those stairs, just as Maud/Betsy did so many times, was extraordinary.

A few friends and I took a side trip to Walnut Grove.  Not much of Laura’s is left, but again, we had the land.  I waded in Plum Creek and looked out at the prairie.  Suddenly, it made much more sense that baby Grace got lost on the prairie–Texas prairie and Minnesota prairie are very, very different.  And I thought about those people, such as the Breswters, who could not be happy in such emptiness.

These literary pilgrimages will always be a part of my travel agendas.  In museum classes, we often talk about how important and special the “real thing” is.  How unexpectedly moving certain objects can be–such as Lincoln’s hat or George Washington’s desk or a slave’s shackles or Eleanor Roosevelt’s knitting needles (an object that moved me to tears once).  This conversation usually occurs while we’re talking about the future of museums–how the internet cannot replace the emotions that come with being in the same place with these truly special artifacts.  And I think these literary sites are a lot like that.  We’ve read about them and taken these characters into our hearts.  So to walk the same halls that these writers and their inspirations walked is a truly unforgettable experiences.  And so for those frew friends that thought I was beyond weird to be so excited about visiting Mankato or Concord or Cavendish or Walnut Grove, I say “perhaps it’s time you met my other friends, Betsy, Jo, Anne and Laura.”

What literary pilgrimages have you been on?  And where are you wanting to go?


Preserving these literary historic sites is not easy or cheap.  The following non-profits are doing all they can so we can continue to visit these magical sites.  If you’re a fan of any of these books, please consider supporting them:

Betsy-Tacy Society

Orchard House

Laura Ingalls Wilder Home (the Mansfield site–there are many Little House related sites, so I picked one)

L. M. Montgomery Institute (again, there are many Montgomery related sites on PEI, but the Institute is the center of scholarship)


In preparation for our upcoming exhibit at the museum, I’ve been reading a lot about trash.  Yes, you read that correctly.  The exhibit is called “Green Fields, Black Smoke,” and it’s all about the ways in which people in the 19th century thought about the environment.  We often hear from visitors “People were so much greener back then!”  And we try to say, very sweetly: “Not exactly.”  This exhibit is our way to answer that question a bit more directly–at least for the next several months.

Anyway, I was in the middle of Susan Strasser’s Waste and Want: A Social History of Trash and got to her chapter on junk men and peddlers.  Instantly, I thought of Papa’s junk shop in All-of-a-Kind Family.  As I continued to read, I was amazed to see that she quoted the scene in Famer Boy where Mama bargains with the peddler.

For those that haven’t recently reread those books, I’ll briefly recap the scene.  Alas, my copy of AoAKF is at work so just paraphrases there.

In Farmer Boy, the entire family is absolutely thrilled when Nick Brown arrives with his amazing wagon arrives with lots and lots of shiny tin.  He spend the night, telling stories, and the next day it’s time for business.  Mother brings out rags she’s been saving for a year, and they begin to haggle.  “For a long time they talked and argued.  Shining tinware and piles of rags were all over the porch.  For every pile of rags that Nick Brown added to the big pile, Mother asked more tinware that he wanted to trade her.  They were both having a good time, joking and laughing and trading.” (Farmer Boy, p. 138)

Now here’s what I never understood about that scene, something I didn’t completely understand until reading Strasser’s book.  Why on earth would Nick Brown want that many rags?  Surely, he’s not making quilts.  How is that even a fair trade?  The answer, my friends, is paper.

In the mid-19th century, most paper was made not out of wood pulp, but fiber.  You know the old paper that seems to have held up so well over the last 150 years?  Probably made out of someone’s worn out muslin, linen or cotton.  In the 1860s, when Farmer Boy is set, publishing is really starting to take off, so the demand for good, clean rags was high.  Paper factories even wrote advertising jingles about how the paper you’re writing a love letter on might once have graced the very body of the woman you are writing to.  Eventually, the demand was so high that factories had to turn to other sources for paper, including wood pulp.  But Mother and Nick Brown were at the center of the 19th century recyling circle.

But what about Papa’s junk shop?  All-of-a-Kind Family takes place almost 50 years later, in a very different environment.  Papa runs the hub for peddlers–his storage area is divided into different categories, including paper and metal.  The incident that came to my mind was when a rich man sold books to a peddler–and the girls were able to own their very first books.  The peddlers hang out with Papa and dote on the girls.  They, too, are part of recycling, 19th century style.  However, for these peddlers, it was generally a cash transaction, not bartering like in Farmer Boy.

So what happened?  Why aren’t peddlers still coming to our doors?  Some of the explanation comes from the factories wanting to deal with raw materials and not spend the time and money to reuse things.  Technology just got better.  I’m sure you’ve heard some of the recent reports about with today’s economy, it no longer pays to recycle.  The demand has gotten smaller, but the supply has held steady or increased.

Cities also figured out how to deal with trash.  Trash collection began ocurring regularly around the turn of the century, depending on your location.  If you had to personally deal with disposing of everything, wouldn’t you throw less away?  But if you didn’t have to worry, it’s much easier to toss.

And finally, various charities, such as The Salvation Army, began who collected your cast-off goods–and made you feel good about passing something on.  Thus, the peddlers became extinct. 

Can you think of any other peddlers in children’s literature?

Children’s Books:

Farmer Boy by Laura Ingalls Wilder

All-0f-a-Kind Family by Sydney Taylor

History Books:

Waste and Want: A Social History of Trash by Susan Strasser.