Haunted by the Pioneering Spirit

Most of my friends know how much I love The Little House on the Prairie books. I won’t even gloss over my disdain for the quote, TV show, end quote. Melissa Gilbert, you were not worthy to work the hook to button the REAL Laura Ingalls Wilder’s shoes. And, Almanzo, indeed! With that hippie haircut. The REAL Almanzo wouldn’t be caught dead outside the Dry Good’s Store with that hair. Dean Butler, I dance on the grave of your career! Isn’t this a good idea for a TV show? We’ll take a great series of wonderful stories, wring the marrow from each character and add our own PC stories. Make Mary get married to a fellow blind person….never happened….adopt a kid named Albert who likes to ride the white pony….never happened…..live next to former football star and flower salesman Merlin Olson…..also, never happened.

Recently, my mother, sister and I went to the last home where Laura lived. I have been there several times, but I like to go back every few years (like anything is going to change). I realized when I was there that being a tour guide for the place would be an excellent day job for me. Note I say “day job”. I have read the books she wrote and all number of reference books over and over, so I think I could talk the talk. It would just be awesome to poke in and out of the root cellar and the upstairs. Maybe I’d find a jar of tomato preserves to eat on hard tack for my trip home from work.

If they would hire me, I would make the tour my own. As we were walking through, I’d call attention to the manuscript for Farmer Boy. While pointing to it, I’d suddenly remember I needed to buy Q-tips. Pulling a sheet from the manuscript, I’d scrawl a reminder note on the back of the page. Hearing all the air sucked out of the room, I’d glance up and say, “Oh, I’m going to put it back.”

Then, we would head to another room where I would discuss how thirsty I am and how unfair it is that no drinks or food are allowed on the tour. Looking around the room, I would thirstily spy a kerosene lantern. Taking it from the nail, I would take the globe off and drain it dry. As kerosene (apple juice) ran down my chin, I’d say, “Oh, sorry, did anyone else want some?”

Heading to the final leg of the tour, I would point to all the things Almanzo made. Grabbing a homemade walking stick from his cache, I’d limp around the room, using it as a crutch, giggling and squealing, “Hey, look at me, everybody, I’m Alamanzo!”

I call it a day job because that’s about how long it would last. But, oh, the memories.