I ordinarily love thunder and lightning. For me, there are fewer pleasures more simple than sitting in a warm place, watching a storm. Rain is my friend. But last night, I was frightened by the storm. I peeked outside for a while and then when the lightning started coming every three seconds or so, I had to close the drapes and turn on the lights. I didn't think I'd be getting back to sleep for a while, so I looked for something to read. Something familiar, preferably, and comforting.
I ended up choosing Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House in the Big Woods, which I haven't read in ages and ages but has been, along with the rest of the series, a longstanding favourite. I read the whole thing again last night. It didn't take very long, since I read faster than I did when I was seven. I still loved it, though.
Part of why these books have been favourites are the illustrations, which are drawn by Garth Williams and prominently featured. I'm not near the scanner tonight, but I did manage to find two examples online (click to embiggen):
Are they not sumptuous? Garth Williams illustrated the entire series when they were reissued in 1953, and his sketches are vivid and charming. I've always loved them. (I'm pretty sure that he did Charlotte's Web, as well).
This time around I also noticed things that maybe I hadn't before, like how much of the narrative deals with food. Well, with food and/or bears, which I guess were just about the prime concerns of Wisconsin pioneers in the 1860s. And how, despite being set in that time, the only mention of the Civil War is this:
Uncle George was home from the army. He wore his blue army coat with the brass buttons and he had bold, merry blue eyes. He was big and broad and he walked with a swagger.
Laura looked at him all the time she was eating her hasty pudding, because she had heard Pa say to Ma that he was wild.
"George is wild, since he came back from the war," Pa had said, shaking his head as if he were sorry, but it couldn't be helped. Uncle George had run away to be a drummer boy in the army, when he was fourteen years old.
That's it! Except for later when Uncle George blows his bugle. I guess I never missed it as a child -- well, it never would have occurred to me -- but it surprised me on this reading once I pegged the time frame. It makes sense, though, since Laura Ingalls Wilder was born in 1857 and thus could be expected to have only the very dimmest memories of war-things, if any at all.
... And then I finished the book and went back to sleep. Little House in the Big Woods is still utterly charming. In fact, I think I might read the series through again ... and not wait for more rainy nights to do so.