Shadows danced on Baby Carrie’s face as she pulled the lantern up closer between us so the warmth from the flame stung my nose. We cowered beneath the blankets of the bed we shared, listening to the wolves howl outside. Ma peaked her head into the room saying, “Time for bed,” bathing our blanket fort in light from the living room and cutting the reel of imagination. The lantern was nothing more than a flashlight held by my little sister Emma, and the howls came from the sirens of police cars on the televised crime drama my father slept through. No longer did the night sparkle with suspense for there were no wolves and no danger. It was Monday and it was time for bed.
When the Florida heat was climbing to triple digits and light-up Sketchers were high fashion, we donned our bonnets and aprons, forging through the back yard to a better life without the oppression of reality or the pressures of modern society. We were pioneers of the Great Escape. In a world where Pa loved Ma and home was always warm, we dwelt in the safety of eighteen-seventy. Lunch pails in hand, we walked to school, traipsing from our bedroom to the living room where we had set up our own schoolhouse. Mom taught us lessons, sometimes as Ms. Beetle, the school mistress of Walnut Grove, and oftentimes as Ma. She sat beside us at night on the well-worn loveseat in the corner of our little living room and read to us. We traveled west with the Ingalls, from Wisconsin to Kansas—snuggled beside our mother on the torn green couch.
Each time I knotted my purple bonnet under my chin I swore to my ten-year-old self that I would see the world differently, like Laura. I started keeping a journal. After all, Laura’s books were just journals, true stories of a life that needed no author but fate. Nestled behind the bright blue whale-shaped kiddie pool that leaned against the faded wood fence of our backyard I wrote. The smell of plastic roasting in the southern sun tickled my nose as the light cast blue shadows on my pages. It turned out that the Hair family story was less interesting through my novice lenses than the Ingalls family’s journey told from Laura’s more experienced pen. It wasn’t long before the tedious act of relaying the small details of my average repetitive days became boring and I returned to my scape of prairie wanderings.
The Christmas we visited relatives up north took us farther than Suffield, Connecticut, it broke the space time continuum and sent us back to the eighteen-hundreds. Aunt Kathy, Mom, Emma, and I walked through the dirt street of Sturbridge Village, dodging farmers and blacksmiths and children and seamstresses. A general store, a schoolhouse, and a barn were just a few of the sights that bid my feet to stray from the path where the people walked and set my heart bouncing in my chest like the hooves of the horse pulling the sleigh through the snowy streets. I felt alien in my turtle neck and jeans while women in dresses and men in suspenders stood inside houses or talked to people as they walked. These were my people! Inside the museum we found the props to fuel our fantasy—dresses and aprons, a wash rack, a pump faucet, and a wood burning stove. We tried on the clothes. We dressed up Aunt Kathy and Mom took pictures.
Not only did the Ingalls saga give me an insatiable desire to find mystery and excitement in my everyday life, it provided a guide for navigating the bumps on the way. Laura and Mary fought. Pa scolded the girls. Hunger and danger threatened the family from outside their cozy cabin but problems were always solved. On a particularly bumpy day, I stormed out of the house and into the backyard, declaring that I would play Mary that day, being in a big-sister kind of a mood. “Mary is being sent away to school,” I announced. Emma, whom I had assigned the role of Laura for our game, played along. My imagination had conjured up scenes of tiled halls and hard desk chairs. Going to “real” school like Laura and the characters I idolized in stories was both a terrifying and thrilling thought. The fight with “Ma” should have made me upset but instead it sent a fleet of jackrabbits hopping in my middle at the prospect of a new experience.
Hurricane Francis was the source of much excitement for two prairie girls looking to experience the days without electricity. For two glorious weeks, we lived like pioneers. By candlelight we would read, eat, and play. School books were put away for the finer art of pretend. Our stage had been set by God and nature and we would act out our role as a little prairie family. Laura and Carrie had many adventures that fall. We explored the world after the storm, picking up sticks and fallen branches in the cold air that had blown in to use as kindling for our make-believe campfire. The western wind had blown in the nineteenth century spirit of community and the neighbors came out to say hello, bringing with them food and stories that made my eager mind hungry for more. More stories. More knowledge. More experiences. Ma cooked up the meat from our freezer on the neighbor’s grill so it wouldn’t spoil and we ate like Christmas on Plum Creek. Board games by lantern and Cat’s Cradle by sunlight knit the Hair family together. For a few days, we were the Ingalls—dependent on each other for entertainment and comfort.
Like the Ingalls family, my family moved away from our little house on Guildford Way to live in a better neighborhood and a healthier home. Laura’s anticipation filled my veins. Finally, something that would make a good story! We packed all of our things into the wagon we called a moving van and drove to our new home, our yellow house on Timber Ridge. Although the difference in our residence wasn’t drastic geographically like most of the Ingalls voyages, the move felt like a leap across the plains to me. Our new house was bigger, better in many ways, but it was different. The yard was fenced in, limiting our escapades to the confines of four wooden panels, but the porch provided a whole new set of possibilities. Prairie schools and cozy cabin homes were created within the mesh screen. Still, I wanted my old surroundings. After all those days of craving a change, when a change finally came I longed for the familiar. I was nothing like Laura. When the prairie wind howled, I cowered indoors wishing for the house I had grown up in. As I got older and learned to like our yellow house, I continued dreaming and looking for mini-adventures.
Eighteen-seventy turned to two-thousand-nine and I grew up with Laura. Bonnets and aprons were set aside for books and notepads. When creativity had taken flight after the second book of Laura’s adventures, I had abandoned the stories and set out to create my own with dress-up and pretend. With my role-playing days waning, I picked up the paperback copy of the third book in the series and plowed my way through to the end, each page turning as blown by prairie wind. I journeyed with the Ingalls family through Minnesota to South Dakota, sharing in Laura’s excitement as they rolled along with the wagon train to a new destination. My reading turned from fiction to non-fiction as I searched for everything I could find on Laura Ingalls Wilder, including biographies about her adult life. My family and I watched every season of the popular TV show Little House on the Prairie that dramatized the Ingalls time on Walnut Grove, diving into the narrative, eager to be transported to the eighteen-hundreds. When asked what my future goals were, I would respond with “to find out more about Laura Ingalls Wilder’s life.” I fancied myself a historian. After all, I had practically lived her life for three years of my own.
The sound of children playing in the chilling February air greeted me as I stepped out of the car on the morning of my last day of pretend. I was nearly a teenager and much too old for dress-up games, but I was doing this for my sister—I told myself. The little red schoolhouse stood out against the dull browns and greens of the dirt and the trees leading up to the front steps. Cars lined the parking lot—an eyesore to historical accuracy—and kids spilled out dressed in their prairie clothes. Girls wore dresses, aprons, and bonnets; boys wore hats, boots, and button down shirts. The teacher for the day stood on the schoolhouse steps and called for the children to line up. I got in line with Emma. We were given name tags with our role to play and we answered accordingly in class. When we stepped inside the little red schoolhouse, the two-thousands passed away and the eighteen-hundreds became our reality. Shiny wooden benches lined each side of the small building and we were guided into our seats—girls on the left, boys on the right. A thrill of excitement passed through my stomach as the schoolmarm passed out slates and pencils for us to write with. I’m too old for this, I thought as I looked around at the little kids lining the benches. I glanced at my friend for reassurance, this was not uncool it was educational. And I loved it. If I was too old for games and imagination, then I didn’t want to grow up.
The journey of Laura Ingalls Wider continued with new members of the pioneer cast. Ma, now a teacher to younger children, shared the Little House on the Prairie books with girls longing for an adventurous role model. Middle school had come and gone, high school was in mid swing and I still hadn’t forgotten my love for the little prairie girl who had modeled charisma and bravery like a mentor. Alongside my mother, I relived my prairie days with the little girls in her classroom. We made butter, molasses candy, log cabins, and paper dolls. With each new activity, the girls—like the Ingalls sisters—fell in love with the old west. They learned about animals and weather and common nineteenth century pioneer vocabulary. These three girls became the prairie sisters Emma and I had been, bonding over recess hopscotch and history lessons with Ms. Beatle. They made their own memories at the Little Red Schoolhouse, becoming real pioneer children for a day. The magic of that place leaves no one untouched. Afternoons in the Florida-prairie sun will be forever engrained in my own memories as the days that taught me about the important things in life, like how to build a sod house and how to cook a jackrabbit.
Laura was not a hero. She disobeyed her Pa and talked back to her Ma. She fought with her sisters and was impetuous. But through her trials, which I saw as adventures, she learned generosity and responsibility. There was no plot that twisted readers on an artificial high like a roller-coaster adrenaline rush, only the testament of real life and real trials that instilled in readers a spirit of adventure, teaching that change is nothing to be feared but something to be embraced with anticipation. Laura’s life led me on a journey of my own, fanning the flame of discovery which had been awakened by stories at an early age.
