Reading Little House Books

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I first read Laura Ingalls Wilder’s books about growing up on the prairie when I was a child.  When my daughters were growing up I read them to them.

Now, I’m reading these books to my granddaughters and enjoying them all over again.  I never did like the TV series much, though.  I thought it was too sappy.

What I enjoyed about these books were the stories of survival on the prairie.  In the book I am reading at present to my two oldest granddaughters, Pa is building a house for the family.  In order to do this, he had to drive his wagon down to the creek, cut down some trees for logs, haul them back to the site, and, just with the help of his wife, place all of those logs, hoist them up as he’s building, cut shakes for the roof, haul rocks for the fireplace and construct it by himself.  Nothing sappy about that.

I’m a great admirer of that type of self-sufficiency.  That may be one of the reasons I’m living in the country now and why I’m forever tackling projects around our little plot of land. 

Directions to My Home

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There are several routes to use to come to my house, but, if I can, I like to direct people here by way of Pea Ridge.  I think the scenery is nicer that way.  And I like the name.

Turn off the main highway at a little red brick country church with a shelter built outside for potluck dinners, Decoration Day celebrations, or homecomings.  The narrow road takes you up through the woods to what we now call Billy Goat Hill because there’s a goat farm there.

At the top of the hill, a sharp left turn takes you winding through the countryside to the other side of the ridge on a narrow blacktop road with several right angle turns, by isolated country homes where families have lived for a long time.  Not farm houses, because there seems to be little farming going on.  Just country living, out of the city, the noise, the traffic, with trailers and ranch style brick houses and ponds and quiet.

Then it’s down the hill and across the little creek as the road straightens out and becomes a tree shaded lane, with the trees overhanging the road, making a tunnel to drive through—a tunnel that changes with the seasons.

Just the drive to my house sometimes still gives me a thrill.