Little House in the Middle of a Road Trip

I am not at all exaggerating when I say I had chills up and down my spine and that I had to blink back tears when I stood in the middle of Laura Ingalls Wilder's (LIW) farmhouse kitchen.  How I ended up browbeating a docent to get me in there and why I reacted like a total fangirl is a long story.

I was here!!!

Once upon a time there was a young girl who grew up in the late 70's and 80's.  They did not have cable TV or iPods or video games back then so she played outside and read a lot of books for fun.  Yes, for fun.  One of the first chapter books she picked out for herself was "Little House on the Prairie".  She chose it because it was big and because it still had pictures in it.  Once she cracked open the spine and started reading about the Ingalls family, she was hooked. She wanted to be Laura and she wanted to travel in a covered wagon across the prairie and listen to Pa play his fiddle at night.  She soon read all the books in succession and a favorite game of hers to play was "Long Winter".  She would stockpile pine cones and helicopter seeds on the front porch to make sure they would survive until the train could get through.  She made her friends join and take turns playing Mary or Carrie or Grace, but never Laura.  She was Laura.  She had brown hair she wished was golden like Laura.  She had a perfect older sister(s) like Laura, and she was trouble, just like Laura.

This girl exclaimed when prairie style was in fashion and happily wore ruffled shirts and calico skirts.  She dressed up as LIW for Halloween and just about every day after school, again, for fun.

Perfectly dressed as LIW for a combo birthday/Halloween party

Even as a child she scoffed at those who thought they knew LIW from the TV show.  Ha!  Mere amateurs in LIW facts and knowledge.  Wonder why you don't remember reading about Albert and his heroin addiction in the books?  Oh, I don't know, maybe because there was NO Albert and they weren't shooting heroin on the plains.  Drinking laudanum perhaps, but there weren't a whole lot of syringes lying around on the homestead back then.

Slowly prairie style clothes made way for shoulder pads and Madonna inspired fashion and little girls grow up and play at being a teenager instead of pioneer girls.  And while this little girl stopped dressing as LIW, she never did outgrow her fascination for her.  She read everything LIW wrote as well and everything she could find written about her.  Obsession?  No, because it is not creepy.  Weird fascination?  Agreed.

So now our little girl is grown up and traveling thousands of miles cross country with two captive children and the LIW homestead in Mansfield, MO almost on their direct route.  Absolutely they are going.  And when they stop and she sees the sign proclaiming "Laura Ingalls Wilder Museum and Home" her heart is POUNDING.  It is all she can do to not fall to her knees and weep but she has already embarrassed her children by bringing them here and she doesn't want to scare the other tourists.  They head into the museum and what is the first thing she sees?  PA'S FIDDLE!  Right there, dead center!  She throws money at the women for their admission and runs, truly runs, to the fiddle and presses her nose against the glass case.  PA's FIDDLE!  Her oldest child takes in the crazy and quickly steers the younger one away.  But wait, she is not done exclaiming and oohing and shaking because there is PA's BIG GREEN BOOK OF ANIMALS!!  And a dress that LIW MADE AND WORE?!  She is torn between running amok and staring entirely too long at each piece of memorabilia.

Now her daughter insists that she browbeat the docent into giving them a tour of the house, but all she will admit to is staring entirely too long at the woman until everyone was uncomfortable and the docent finally agreed to getting up and opening the farmhouse for them.  This docent only has the BEST job in the world and she was ruining it by not being dressed in pioneer clothes.  I forgave her as she unlocked the door and let me into the place where my childhood idol cooked and ate.

So there I was in Laura's house.  And it was tiny and old and perfect.  The docent rattled off stories about LIW but I knew them all.  Counters low?  Yep, LIW was tiny.  Windows by the place she made bread? Yep, LIW hated kneading dough and would look out windows.  Puh-lease!  Tell me something I don't know.  She never did; crazy fangirl knew all the stories.

We went through the house and saw all the rooms except upstairs as it was roped off with the typical fascist velvet ropes that come with American history.  Personally I think that as a history major I should be allowed access behind all velvet ropes.  I won't touch, I just want to look.  Even though not being allowed upstairs was disappointing, somehow standing in LIW's house filled up a part of my childhood soul.  I stood where Laura stood!  I looked out Laura's windows!  I smiled ear to ear with complete and utter happiness and my children seized on my lunacy and we hit up the giftshop.  Twig pencils?  Yes, need them.  Postcards?  All.  Dr. Peppers?  Yes and all around.  Bonnets?  I was tempted but only because I have reached the age I really should wear a hat in the sun.

I remember being sad as a kid when I learned that LIW was dead and I couldn't write to her about how much I loved her books and how they gave me a place to escape to.  Pretending to be LIW took up so much of my childhood that it was truly, truly thrilling to see the things she wrote about, the things I pretended I owned or endured. I do not think that the thrill extended to my children though.  They were good sports but the boy said he enjoyed the Dr. Pepper the best.  SG's eyes light up when she retells the story of how I browbeat the docent into giving us the tour. I just think I was embodying LIW's feisty spirit and showing my kids how a woman can be strong and purposeful.  And demanding.  I can't wait until I figure out a way to get us all into South Dakota and make a side trip to De Smet to see another of Laura's house.  I will write ahead and warn the docents that I don't give a fig about their scheduled tours, they are letting me in.