Oh Laura. As long as there's been books in our home and stories for bedtime... there's been you. Countless are the times I've heard your stories; they drift through the room as they are being read aloud or played in CD form, they sit waiting on various bookshelves and nightstands, even those too little to read flip through picture books telling your same stories in simple sentences. You are more than just a story on our bookshelf, for your stories were real and so the little girl on the pages sprung to life and she too became more than a character on a page. We knew that while we could peep in on part of her life, listening to the words that you wrote for us, there were times where she slipped away into history and we could not follow. After a while our little Laura character would come prancing back, after helping Ma with some chores or playing with Mary, perhaps you would tell us about those things, or perhaps you would let a few days of things that seemed uneventful slip away and tell us instead of a story that Pa told you on some cold winter's night.
Both character and writer were you, and perhaps that is part of your magic. There is a time when almost every child reading a much loved book has whispered out "Oh I wish it were real." and has been disappointed, but not with you, Laura. For you take that child by the hand and lead them back into your real life, teaching them what it was to churn butter and live in a dugout.
If you had not been the writer you were your stories might have fallen flat. A person may have beautiful and wondrous stories to tell, but unless they have the words to tell them with their stories will remain, forever trapped in the past. Oh how glad we are that we have you, you who knew just how to tell those stories to us. You knew what memories to tell to us, you knew which were the ones to retell and which were the ones to keep locked away as your own. Your stories lived before our eyes. With each word our imaginations gained a better image of Pa playing his fiddle, Ma and her busy hands, Mary with her goodness, baby Carrie who grew out of being a baby before our eyes, Grace who wasn't even alive till we reached later books, but most of all you. Even when you were telling about being naughty, it was naughtiness that we all knew we would have committed if we were you- for you gave us a little girl who was both lovable and real. Real because she was you.
It seemed as if we could practically smell the pies and cakes that Almanzo's mother always made, that we could hear the rustling of the skirts at the dance at Grandpa's house, and it seemed to me that if I just closed my eyes I might open them again to see you and Mary perched on pumpkins playing with your rag dolls.
You grew up from being our playmate, to a school teacher, to a mother and wife. It seemed like we grew up with you. As we got older we went from book to book, traveling with you away from the little house in the big woods, across the prairie, into town; everywhere you went we went with you. Yours will be stories that last with us for always. Stories that we will want to read again and again. You see, not only were you a character we admired, a heroine of a lovely story, but you were a real women who's story was not a fairytale. You inspired us, but it was not heroics that were unattainable. You showed us your failings, most of the time those were what you were trying to show us, but you were a dear, good, courageous woman who we loved.
You and Almanzo, Ma and Pa, Mary, Carrie, and Grace will always be a part of our home. You take us back to a time in history that is now past, a time of traveling over the country in a covered wagon, knowing that you may never see the family you left behind again. I think this should make us (us as in your readers) realize how fortunate we are, blessed in that no matter how many miles we are separated by, we are only a relatively short plane ride away, when put into perspective. We are blessed with the soft beds which are ours to lay down in at night, the roof over our heads, the knowledge that we are safe and warm.
I think we should also question why when we are so blessed we still worry and complain and fret such an awful lot. If you had complained the way we do over every little thing you would have been unbearable to live with, perhaps, that is what we are more than a little of the time. Perhaps we need to have more faith; faith like the faith that kept such a family as yours going though you knew not what was going to happen to you from day to day. You knew that you had each other, that you were safe wherever you were, and that God was watching out for you.
We are blessed with our families, with our home, enough food, and the faith that whatever happens God is watching out and taking care of us. Why should we worry more than you?
With much love and gratitude to you, Laura,
Emily
