Posted on March 4, 2019March 4, 2019 by Stephanie McGann

Fairy Tales #5: Little Red Cap

No fairy tale collection would be complete without the story of Little Red Cap, otherwise known as Little Red Riding Hood. Its beloved title character has captured the imagination of generations of little girls and taught them not to trust the big bad wolf.

The story has been reinvented over and over again, often with the goal of “softening” the darker details or painting it with a more secular brush. The Brothers Grimm would have had none of that, however. Their version is “dark” by today’s standards precisely because they wanted to paint a gripping picture of what could happen if one wanders off the path.

PLOT ANALYSIS

Exposition – Background

Once there was a good little girl who was loved by everyone. Her grandmother especially doted on her and made her a little red velvet cap, which she wore so much that everyone called her Little Red Cap.

Inciting Incident – The Problem

Her life takes an unexpected twist one day when she is sent on what would seem a rather benign task. Her mother says, “Come, Little Red-Cap, here is a piece of cake and a bottle of wine; take them to your grandmother. She is ill and weak, and they will do her good. Set out before it gets hot, and when you are going, walk nicely and quietly and do not run off the path…”

Little Red Cap’s story unfolds from there. Her challenge is to stay on the path and complete her errand safely.

Rising Action – The Build-up

Along the way, she meets a sly wolf who pretends to be good. He tricks Little Red Cap into straying from the path to pick wild flowers so that he can run ahead to Grandmother’s cottage.

Once there, the wolf knocks on the door and pretends to be Little Red Cap. Grandmother is deceived and invites him to “lift the latch” and enter her cottage. The wolf then goes to her bedroom and swallows her whole. He wastes no time disguising himself as Grandmother and lays in wait for Little Red Cap, whom he intends to eat next.

Climax – The Breaking Point

When Little Red Cap arrives, she senses that something is not right, but she still walks into the back bedroom expecting to find Grandmother. Thus ensues the famous “Grandmother, Grandmother…” lines wherein Little Red Cap notes how different the wolf’s ears, eyes, hands, and mouth look than those of her real grandmother. No sooner does she realize that it’s the wolf, then he goggles her up.

Falling Action – The Unraveling

Luckily, the wolf is so full from his two-course meal that he falls asleep in Grandmother’s bed and begins snoring loudly. A nearby huntsman hears the loud snoring and decides to check on Grandmother, thinking she may be ill. When he goes inside, he sees the wolf and shouts, “So here I find you, you old sinner.” He gets ready to shoot the wolf but thinks better of it and decides to cut his stomach open instead.

Resolution – Lesson Learned

Out pops Little Red Cap and Grandmother. Though they’re both a little worse for the wear, they eat the basket of goodies and feel much better.

MOTIFS

Journey through the Woods

Woods are dark and scary places. Just ask any little child to venture deep into the woods on his own, and see how he responds.

Little Red Cap does not seem afraid, however, when her mother tells her to walk through the woods to Grandmother’s house. Ironically, she’s too young to get scared. She doesn’t know, or at least doesn’t understand, that danger awaits. She has grown up in the safety of her mother’s home and expects that safety to stay with her in the woods. But, of course, it doesn’t. The wolf greets her almost immediately and plans to devour her.

So, too, in life does danger always lurk. The woods, then, is a metaphor for life’s figurative journey from beginning to end. It starts in the safety, certainty, and comfort of one’s own home with parents who, like Little Red Cap’s mother, try to teach the ways of the world. In its most primitive sense, those teachings are designed to heighten a child’s chances of survival. One day, ready or not, that same child must face the world alone.

Many, like Little Red Cap, wander off the path and even get devoured. Sure, Little Red Cap gets a second chance when the huntsman cuts her out of the wolf’s belly, but that’s hardly something she could have counted on.

By extension, the woods also symbolize our earthly journey to Heaven, with sin as the ever-present danger.

The Big Bad Wolf

This brings us to the infamous big bad wolf who metaphorically represents sin. He’s no stranger to this role either, as there are seemingly endless stories with wolves as bad guys. Even Christ used this metaphor in His Parable of the Good Shepherd.

If the wolf’s so big and bad, though, why doesn’t he just eat Little Red Cap right away and then go gobble up Grandma?

The answer to this question reveals much about the nature of sin. Thanks to free will, we can either invite sin into our life or turn it down. Likewise, the wolf cannot do anything to Little Red Cap without her participation. For that matter, he cannot even get into Grandmother’s house without permission. Remember—the wolf opens the door himself but only after Grandmother invites him to do so.

Of course, both Little Red Cap and Grandmother are tricked by the wolf. He’s a liar and a master of disguise, feigning to be good and dressing as someone he’s not. Sin is the same way. It, too, pretends to be good, or at least not that bad. After all, Little Red Cap was trying to do something nice for her grandmother when she stopped to pick flowers. Nevertheless, by doing so she disobeyed her mother and gave the wolf his chance.

Once he has it, he takes as much as he can. He isn’t satisfied with one meal. He has to have two. And so his appetite would have grown had the huntsman not come along. Likewise, sin always gets bigger and hurts more people unless it is killed entirely.

To do so, we must see it for what it is—sin. The huntsman immediately sees through the wolf’s disguise, notably calling him “sinner,” and that’s why he is able to kill him.

CONCLUSION

One of the nice things about Little Red Cap is that it can be read at so many different levels. At its most basic, it reminds children to listen to their parents and not to trust strangers. That’s a pretty good point by itself. Indeed, my students often think that’s what it boils down to.

“We know where this one’s going,” they seem to think when I pass out the story.

After we unpack the metaphors, however, they suddenly look at the story differently, almost like they’re hearing it as little children for the first time. They once again fear for Little Red Cap when she walks into Grandmother’s room and examines the wolf’s ears, eyes, hands, and mouth. They can imagine themselves in her shoes, realizing too late that sin has crept into the most treasured corners of their lives.

In truth, we have all been in Little Red Cap’s shoes when we would rather be in the huntsman’s.

Posted on January 19, 2024 by Stephanie McGann

Lessons from Laura: A Little House

The most prominent motif in the Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder is the little house itself. From the Big Woods of Wisconsin to the Shores of Silver Lake, Laura Ingalls Wilder lived in one little house after another as a girl. Sometimes the houses had glass windows. Sometimes they didn’t. Sometimes the snow came in. Sometimes it didn’t. Sometimes the chimneys blazed. Sometimes they didn’t.

But what the little houses lacked in size and stuff they made up for in virtues. “Courage, self reliance, independence, integrity and helpfulness,” as Laura so oft-stated later in life, were the things that fortified her little houses and made them beautiful.

A Language Lesson

It all started with Pa and Ma and the example they set every day through thick and thin. Let’s think deeply about that as we classify and diagram the following sentences. Some of these are Laura’s words exactly from Little House on the Prairie; others have been adapted. If you are unfamiliar with this type of language exercise, take a look at this blog series here where I break it down in detail.

Final Thoughts

What a tremendous effort that must have been for Pa and Ma, and what a relief, also, it must have been to put their children to bed inside four walls, safe from the wolves and the uncertainties of the pioneer road.

Whether Laura realized the extent of her parents’ labors at the time or only later in life, it clearly made an impression on her. One gets the sense that it was her little houses, through the sacrificial love of her parents, that built Laura.

Therein lies her most important lesson: Families that sacrifice for each other will be strong and good and loving.

Images courtesy of Wiki Commons

Posted on April 8, 2019December 20, 2019 by Stephanie McGann

Fairy Tales #10: The Little Match Seller

The Little Match Seller is another bitter-sweet fairy tale by Hans Christian Andersen. In fact, the ending is so hard that I have heard some challenge the wisdom of sharing it with children. To each his own, of course, but I think it is a very good story for older children like those I teach in middle school.

Let’s look at the plot and then consider its merits.

PLOT SUMMARY

Exposition – The Background

While others are making merry and staying warm inside on New Year’s Eve, a poor little girl must walk barefoot through the freezing cold streets and try to sell matches in order to bring the earnings home to her father. He is a terrible man who will certainly beat her if she cannot make any money.

Inciting Incident – The Problem

And she doesn’t. The whole day long she fails to sell even a single match. All the while her feet have turned blue from the cold, making her unable to continue on.

Rising Action – The Build-up

Yet, rather than cry, she embraces her fate with a heart full of hope. She strikes one of her matches in a vain attempt to warm herself. There in the light she sees a vision of a nice warm stove. Just as she reaches out her fingers to touch it, the match goes out, and the vision disappears.

Eager to bring it back, the little girl lights another match. This time she sees a beautiful dinner table set with a scrumptious goose. It looks so good that it dances right off the table toward her but then disappears when the match goes out.

She quickly lights a third match and beholds a glorious Christmas tree bedazzled with lights from top to bottom. It, too, disappears when the match goes out.

Climax – The Breaking Point

Just then, the little girl sees a falling star and thinks someone is dying, little realizing it is herself.

Falling Action – The Unraveling

In a final act of hope, the little girl lights a fourth match and sees a vision of her dear departed grandmother, who was the only one who ever loved her.

“O take me with you,” the girl cries. “I know you will go away when the match burns out; you will vanish like the warm stove, the roast goose, and the large, glorious Christmas tree.”

Resolution – Happily Ever After

She hopes not in vain. Her grandmother, who truly is a spirit sent from God, escorts her to Heaven where she will enjoy all the things she envisioned and more.

On New Year’s Day, people gather around the little girl’s dead body and lament her passing, never imagining all the wonderful visions she saw before she died.

PLOT ANALYSIS

In order to understand the lessons in this story, we have to begin with the ending. Like the onlookers in the story, readers are naturally compelled to focus on the sad death of the little match seller, not to mention the terrible realities of her life.

She was a victim of poverty and abuse and left utterly alone in the world when her grandmother died. No doubt the onlookers could discern a great deal of this from her ragged clothes and bare feet. Perhaps she even bore the wounds of abuse on her frail body. Surely, she was a forsaken child if there ever was one.

And yet she was somehow full of hope. There was no reason she should expect a wood stove or a dancing goose and certainly not a frivolous Christmas tree. Yet, she dreamed of them nonetheless and most assuredly knew she would get them someday in Heaven. Her life, though we might call it tragic, is nothing short of a miracle in that she overcomes her difficulties with such grace.

MOTIFS

Hans Christian Andersen conveys this message through the interplay of three sets of oppositional motifs.

Light versus Darkness

His little match seller lives a life in the dark, meaning she has virtually nothing. Yet, she has something better than material goods. She has a light within herself that she brings to the world. To her father and all the onlookers, she is a nothing but a poor match seller. But in truth, she is a light giver.

The final matches she strikes are not bought and paid for. They are freely struck just as her goodness is freely shared with any who would care to bask in it. As each match burns down, the light of her mortal world gives way to the eternal light of Heaven until she is consumed by it.

Warmth versus Coldness

So, too, does coldness permeate every aspect of her life. Whether at home or on the streets, the wind is always whipping at her face. She cannot escape it. Yet, she literally and figuratively brings warmth with her wherever she goes. Each of her tiny little matches can strike a roaring fire. Likewise, every hardship she accepts with grace kindles warmth in the world.

When none are left to enjoy that warmth, both that from the matches and that from her goodness, God calls her home to the eternal warmth and sunshine of Heaven.

Life versus Death

Ironically, the little girl’s life on earth is more akin to death, whereas her death is the beginning of her true life. While this accords with basic Christian beliefs, it can lead to a misreading of the story.

It is not uncommon to confuse the truth that we are made for eternal life with the falsehood that some people are better off dead. Just because the little match seller’s life was so difficult does not mean that it was somehow not worth living. It most assuredly was, and she gave glory to God by accepting her hardships with such grace. And by doing so, she gained eternal life.

If she had given up, well, we can guess her death would have turned out differently.

CONCLUSION

The Little Match Seller is not for the faint of heart. It poses many serious questions about the realities of life on earth and life everlasting. If the story makes us cry, so much the better. That means it has kindled something in us.

It seems Hans Christian Andersen was trying to strike his own match and shed light on the beauty waiting to be found in suffering. Maybe that message is too heavy for a small child, but maybe a small child is just innocent enough to bask in its rays. I tend to think it is the adults who cringe.

Image in the public domain

Posted on April 22, 2019April 23, 2019 by Stephanie McGann

Fairy Tales #12: A Classical Study

There is something about reading fairy tales that is quintessentially classical. After all, classical education considers the great stories of Western culture one of its core foundations. So if at the end of a school day I have read a fairy tale with my students, I am usually pleased. But, if that’s where it ends, I am all the more disappointed.

Rich as they are for the moral imagination, I try to draw as much from them as possible. Here is a breakdown of some of my favorite extension activities to do with students.

DISCOURSE

Socratic Discussion

A classical mainstay, Socratic discussion is at the heart of my approach to studying fairy tales. We discuss the stories in small groups and as a whole class, often rearranging the desks and chairs so we form one large circle or several smaller ones. This discursive format helps students break down the plot and unpack its core symbols.

I guide the discussions but play a limited role in order to encourage active engagement from the students. Plus, it lets them tease out the ideas that they find most interesting. In this way, students feel a greater sense of ownership in the discussions and make more personal contributions.

Disputation

This is a really fun one that serves as a natural outgrowth of Socratic discussion. Disputation involves debating key aspects of the story, typically those that pose moral dilemmas. For example, in reading Cat and Mouse in Partnership, we might debate whether the mouse should have formed a partnership with the cat. Or when reading Cinderella, we might debate whether or not it is a good story for little kids.

Sometimes our debates are very formal with preparation and regulated rounds. Other times, they are of a more impromptu style. Either way, the students get very animated and impassioned.

CREATIVE WRITING

Plot Reinvention

Another exercise I really like is plot reinvention. First, students have to thoroughly understand the original plot of the story, meaning they can express the inciting incident, climax, and resolution for themselves much as I have done in this blog series. Once they can do this, they choose an element to change.

If, for example, the father in Godfather Death were to choose God, then the whole story would change. The student’s job would be to tell that new story. One of the great things about this exercise is that it gives students a concrete place to start writing, which can be very difficult with more open-ended prompts.

Character Reinvention

Character reinvention follows this same principle. What if Little Red Cap were a naughty girl? Or what if the fisherman had a tougher upper lip? Or how about making the youngest sister in Twelve Brothers a real chatter-box?

When students develop a whole new approach to a character, it affects all of his or her motives and actions and can lead to a different, not to mention highly entertaining, story altogether.

Working from Art

I also like projecting beautiful paintings or sketches from fairy tales and having students write just one scene based on the picture. This approach is a little more contained than the previous two, so it makes it easier for students to develop sharp, properly formatted dialogue and well-planned narration. As such, it readily doubles as a grammar lesson as well as a creative writing exercise.

In preparation for writing a scene for Cinderella, I might depict the painting above by John Everett Millais and prompt students with the following: Describe the moment in time depicted here. What are the character’s thoughts? Words? Actions? Draw your ideas together as a scene from the story. Be sure to include dialogue and narration.

ARTISTIC RENDERING

Reflective Journaling

There are a number of mediums one could use for reflective journaling, but one I really like is water color. This entails students painting something they found inspiring in a fairy tale.

After reading The Little Match Seller, one might paint a wood stove, another a Christmas tree, or even the little girl flying up to Heaven. Once students have painted their pictures, they reflect in writing on what they have depicted and why. When that’s done, they walk around and view everyone else’s journals in what we call a “museum walk.”

All the while, we play classical music and otherwise maintain silence. It makes for a very relaxing, thoughtful environment, not to mention beautiful work.

Story Board

This one is borrowed from the publishing industry wherein editors lay out words on a story board and then contract illustrators to matches them with pictures. I have students do the same thing with a fairy tale.

Their story boards can be very elaborate or more of a quick sketch, true to the story or reinvented using one of the models above. Either way, students fine-tune their understanding of the plot and have the opportunity to do so in an artistic, visual way.

Act Them Out

Most of my students like acting out the fairy tales best of all. I give them liberty to keep or change whatever they want in the plots. For that matter, they can even combine plots as long as it makes sense. Their job is to write the script, memorize it, and present it in a formal production. Ideally, we invite other classes in the school to come and watch.

CONCLUSION

These types of exercises cause students to think deeply about the fairy tales. This is extremely valuable from an educational standpoint, not least because it helps students to really understand the stories and develop their own insights.

It is perhaps even more valuable from a moral standpoint because the lessons can serve as a guide for life’s real-world difficulties. When, for example, they are discerning the nature of a friendship, they can draw from Cat and Mouse in Partnership. They can look to The Mermaid or The Snow Queen when trying to understand the true meaning of love. Perhaps they will think about The Emperor’s New Clothes when they eventually come to critique politics. Or maybe, they will take heart from The Little Match Seller in the face of personal suffering, which no doubts awaits everyone at some point or another.

Whatever the case may be, by extending the fairy tales with additional exercises, students come to embody them in a way that will enrich their lives forever. At least that’s my hope.

Image in the public domain

Posted on February 5, 2019September 1, 2021 by Stephanie McGann

Fairy Tales #1: Introduction

I once asked my seventh grade class what a fairy tale was, and one student said, “It’s a story that begins with Tinker Bell waving her wand over the Disney Castle.” She was joking, of course, but her words were illuminating.

Many children today associate fairy tales with the magical world of Disney and know little of the literary let alone the historical background behind them. That’s because Disney has a type of cultural monopoly over fairy tales that allows them to dictate storylines (and insert social politics) according to their commercial business preferences.

Some of their changes are small—just have Cinderella’s dad die so he doesn’t seem like such a deadbeat. No big deal to lose one measly character. Some of the changes are big—let Ariel live happily ever after with Prince Eric. Turning the little mermaid into seafoam as punishment for disobeying her father doesn’t exactly make for a box office hit. Other changes are complete transformations. How exactly is Frozen supposed to be based on The Snow-Queen?

I get it. It’s all about the bottom line. And frankly, Disney’s versions are just as authentic as the so-called “originals.” After all, fairy tales come from a long tradition of oral storytelling which allows the teller to add, subtract, stretch, and reinvent as desired. Even Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm did that.

(Yup! They didn’t “write” the tales that now bare their name. They actually traveled from town to town collecting and recording stories that were already being told.)

Defining Fairy Tales

So what holds a fairy tale together? What do they all have in common?

When I first started teaching fairy tales, I tried to find a definition to share with my students that would answer those precise questions. Most definitions talked about good conquering evil. That certainly rings true, but Disney’s version of “good” is totally different than, say, Hans Christian Andersen’s.

Let’s return to The Mermaid for a moment, which inspired Disney’s The Little Mermaid. The “goodness” of obedience was swapped out for a modern “goodness” of independence. Throw cultural differences into the mix, and you’re left with an even more ambiguous understanding of what constitutes “good.”

What’s more, most stories boil down to some kind of good versus evil paradigm, so there needs to be something further that sets fairy tales apart from other genres. This is where my student’s playful comment about Tinker Bell comes in handy because it captures the dreamy side of fairy tales and the promise of “happily ever after.” No doubt Disney’s branding with the “magical kingdom” depicts the essence of this.

Putting it all together, I eventually came up with the following definition: a fairy tale is a fanciful, make-believe story that reveals a particular set of values about society and pivots around the rewards of virtue overcoming vice.

Lake Scene with Fairies and Swans by Robert Caney

I like this definition because it allows for differences across time and place (e.g., values which are changeable) while still maintaining a set of universal principals (e.g., virtues which are unchanging). While fairy tales originated in the Middle Ages and are generally set in that time period, they are not constrained by it. Likewise, they are not limited to Western culture.

Just think of the many versions of Cinderella told all over the world. Yeh-Shen, which is a Chinese version, was one of my favorites when I was little. Like the Disney version and the Brothers Grimm version before that, it has the basic “rags to riches” storyline. A major difference, however, is that a magical fish grants Yeh-Shen’s wish to go to the ball. This reflects significant cultural differences in China wherein fish are symbols of good fortune. Nevertheless, the reasons the fish rewards Yeh-Shen are consistent with those of Disney’s Fairy Godmother and the Grimms’ magical tree: Cinderella is being rewarded for her virtues.

Fairy tales are told to bestow lessons and to offer the promise of reward if those lessons are followed. The “happily ever after” motif was a particularly powerful one in the Middle Ages where the vast majority of the population was plagued with hardship. They taught young children that if you live a life of virtue, then you will be rewarded. Of course, that reward was not really expected to be found in an earthly palace but rather in a heavenly one.

Continuing the Tradition

There are countless reasons to study the “original” fairy tales today. They’re enjoyable, for one, but they’re also a lens into the hopes and fears of the common people of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. Given how dominated historical accounts of the time were by the affairs of royalty and nobility, fairy tales offer a type of anthropology into the lives of everybody else.

But that’s still not all. Fairy tales give us pause to reflect on our own lives. They remind us that though the world is a scary place wrought with danger, we should take heart. Virtue will prevail, if not in life then in death. As G.K. Chesterton put it,

“Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed.”

And that’s the number one reason why children should read fairy tales, especially the “originals” that tend to be starker. To that end, this series will analyze some of the fairy tales I use in my classroom, including those that are both well-known and lesser-known: Cinderella, Godfather Death, The Snow-Queen, Little Red Cap, The Twelve Brothers, The Mermaid, The Fisherman and His Wife, Cat and Mouse in Partnership, The Little Match Seller, and The Emperor’s New Clothes. Finally, I will share the types of classical exercises I use them for with my students.

Image courtesy of The National Gallery of Art, Washington

Posted on February 21, 2024February 21, 2024 by Stephanie McGann

Lessons from Laura: Almanzo’s Horses

Laura Ingalls Wilder brilliantly introduces the story of her husband, Almanzo Wilder in Farmer Boy, the second of her Little House books. The plot revolves around one seemingly simple question: Should Almanzo grow up to be a farmer like his father? Yes, he concludes at the end of that story, for then he shall have a horse of his own.

Horses prove a life-long obsession for Almanzo and one that Laura shares. When their paths finally cross in By the Shores of Silver Lake, she notices his horses—and then him. Here is what she says: “Suddenly into the sunny green and blue came two brown horses with flowing black manes and tails, sitting side by side in harness. Their brown flanks and shoulders gleamed in the sunshine, their slender legs stepped daintily, their necks were arched and their ears pricked up, and they tossed their heads proudly as they went by…a young man stood up in the wagon, driving…”

The young man, as we know, is Almanzo. Perhaps Laura sequences her attention this way because she is being coy, but given the recurrence of this type of picture—indeed, she always seems to notice Almanzo’s horses before noticing him—it seems she is pointing to something more literary. Almanzo’s horses are not simply a prize that Laura wants to win as his someday spouse; they are a motif for the adventurous spirit they share.

A Language Lesson

Let’s consider their adventurous spirit by classifying and diagramming the following sentences that tell of Laura helping Almanzo tame a horse named Barnum. Some of these are Laura’s words exactly from These Happy Golden Years; others have been adapted. If you are unfamiliar with this type of language exercise, take a look at this blog series here where I break it down in detail.

Final Thoughts

Although Laura takes the reins in the short scene pictured above, we know from reading the full series and following her life more broadly that she and Almanzo were a team. Sometimes he drove; sometimes she drove. Either way, Barnum and other such horses were likely to run away if Laura and Almanzo didn’t keep their cool and work together with steadfast resolve. Barnum is the first horse they tamed together, ultimately teaching him how to walk. But that doesn’t mean he stopped running altogether. He simply learned to pace himself appropriately.

Therein lies the final lesson from Laura for this blog series: Taming the passions of one’s heart is part of blazing the trail of life.

Laura, we well know, was much like Pa in always wanting to go West. But also like Pa, she tamed that passion to embrace the duties of running a household. After much suffering, including more that comes after the timeframe of the series, Laura and Almanzo settle down on Rocky Ridge Farm in Mansfield, Missouri, far from either of their childhood families. They live out their lives, shifting from season to season, never forgetting their upbringing and ultimately bringing it back to life for the benefit of so many others through the Little House books.

For as much effort as some have made to include Rose in that process, it bears mentioning that Almanzo played a role, too. He encouraged Laura’s writing, supported her travels, and furnished her with ample knowledge of building and workmanship and other farm know-how. Even more importantly, he recognized who she was and what she was capable of.

Tamed by life but never broken in spirit, Laura and Almanzo are nothing less than trailblazers who have inspired untold numbers to take life by the reins.

Images courtesy of Wiki Commons

Posted on February 12, 2024 by Stephanie McGann

Lessons from Laura: Mary’s Eyes

The Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder are filled with many family hardships. Though readers feel each of these differently, there is something particularly jarring about Mary’s blindness. Not only does it seem to come from nowhere, appearing at the beginning of By the Shores of Silver Lake after such a happy conclusion to On the Banks of Plum Creek, but it also proves to be about the only hardship the Ingalls family cannot fully remedy. As we learn, Mary does not get her eyesight back, and her life is thus fundamentally altered.

Mary becomes more reserved, loses her chance of becoming a teacher, and becomes permanently dependent on her parents and then later on her sisters. Although over the course of the rest of the series, we see Mary go off to college, learn to read braille, and find peace with her lot, we the readers are still left feeling sad for Mary. She must have suffered greatly, and in a different way, so, too, must have Laura.

Their relationship changes forever after Mary becomes blind. They stop being childhood playmates and embrace very different paths. Nevertheless, they do not stop loving each other and sacrificing for each other. We see this in the way that Laura steps up to become a teacher in Mary’s place, saves money to put toward Mary’s education, and—most especially—in how Laura becomes Mary’s eyes.

A Language Lesson

Let’s join Laura in one of her first attempts at being Mary’s eyes by classifying and diagramming the following sentences. Some of these are Laura’s words exactly from By the Shores of Silver Lake; others have been adapted. If you are unfamiliar with this type of language exercise, take a look at this blog series here where I break it down in detail.

Final Thoughts

In this particular moment in Laura’s life, we see the blossoming of her worldview, one that is ever focused on seeing the True, the Good, and the Beautiful. Hidden as they sometimes are, she nevertheless knows that they are always present, always waiting to be contemplated and enjoyed. She knows that blindness, true blindness, is more than an ailment of the eyes such as Mary suffers. It is an ailment of the soul, and she earnestly seeks to heal that more damaging blindness she fears for her sister.

*Left to Right: Carrie, Mary, and Laura Ingalls, c 1879/1880*

Therein lies another of Laura’s many lessons: Imagination opens the window of the soul and lets the True, the Good, and the Beautiful stream through. Happily, Mary welcomes that lesson in time, for in These Happy Golden Years, during a visit home from college, she tells Laura, “I never see things so well with anyone else.” Indeed, many of us feel the same way about Laura.

Images courtesy of Wiki Commons

Posted on January 26, 2024 by Stephanie McGann

Lessons from Laura: Pa’s Fiddle

No book in the Little House series by Laura Ingalls Wilder would be complete without the accompaniment of Pa’s fiddle. From house to house, it always strikes just the right note for every occasion.

*Pa’s fiddle was said to be a coveted Amati*

When Pa wants to entertain Laura, Mary, Carrie, and eventually Grace, he plays “Old Grimes” or “Old Dan Tucker” or “Captain Jinks.” When he wants them to drift off to sleep, he plays “The Blue Juniata” or “The Beacon Light of Home.” When he wants to lift their spirits, he plays “Home Sweet Home.”

Always, Pa’s fiddle sanctifies the moments of Laura’s life, and in the process, it draws us, the readers, deeper and deeper into the beauty of her family.

A Language Lesson

Let’s allow Pa’s fiddle to stir our imagination as we classify and diagram the following sentences. Some of these are Laura’s words exactly from Little House in the Big Woods; others have been adapted. If you are unfamiliar with this type of language exercise, take a look at this blog series here where I break it down in detail.

*“Lay” serves as a linking verb because you could substitute the being verb “was” and retain the meaning. That makes “awake” a participle predicate adjective modifying “Laura.”*

Don’t get tricked on this one. “Began” is not a transitive verb. We know that because the sentence cannot be rephrased in the passive voice. That makes “to quiver…music” a complimentary infinitive phrase and not an infinitive direct object phrase.

Final Thoughts

Time and again in the Little House books, Pa’s fiddle does more than match the mood of his family. It elevates it, calling them to be joyful in even the hardest of times. Laura heeds this with all the trust of an adoring child. She listens to Pa’s songs, completely absorbed, until she has learned them by heart—until they have become her own songs.

By the time we meet her as a grown woman narrating the story of her life, it is clear that she has come to embody the very spirit of Pa’s fiddle. She knows that merriment is the much-needed companion of hard work; one without the other is neither happiness nor contentment.

Therein lies another of Laura’s many lessons: Music and song bring out the joy of hard work.

Images courtesy of Wiki Commons

Posted on January 12, 2024February 21, 2024 by Stephanie McGann

The Truth about Memoirs: Lessons from Laura Ingalls Wilder

After I read the Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder with my family recently, I became increasingly interested in learning the story behind her story. What was the real Laura like? How did she become an author? And why were her books classified as children’s historical fiction and not autobiographical?

Laura Ingalls Wilder, circa 1885 — *Laura Ingalls Wilder, c. 1885*

Those questions are not so easily answered; nonetheless, I found Caroline Fraser’s Prairie Fires: The American Dreams of Laura Ingalls Wilder a great place to start. It not only “corrects the record” on different events in her life, such as how old she was when she lived in Wisconsin (not once but twice, it turns out!), but it also provides extensive coverage of Laura’s life after marriage and how she came to be an author. For those reasons alone, the biography is well worth reading.

Nevertheless, Fraser’s voice is so pointed, so superior, it felt like reading a biography written by Nellie Oleson.

That got me thinking about the problematic nature of memoirs, which is something I also addressed in my blog series on Mark Twain’s Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc. As I said there, memoirs are a sticky business. No matter how fact-based, there is always some construction going on, some angle being conveyed, some truth being obscured, some falsehood being promoted. Since there is no way around it, many biographers acknowledge that up front.

That’s what Patrick Chalmers did when he wrote his biography of Kenneth Grahame, author of The Wind in the Willows. Chalmers introduced his work by saying, “The man who writes the life of another is much in the position of the man who paints another’s portrait. And in all portraits you will find, I think, more background than picture.” That is certainly the case with Fraser’s biography, particularly given its focus on the pioneer movement writ large. For her, Laura’s life is more a lens through which to view that period of American history.

Walt Whitman was also concerned with the problematic nature of memoirs and addressed it in his poem, “When I Read the Book.” It goes like this:

When I read the book, the biography famous,

And is this then (said I) what the author calls a man’s life?

And so will some one when I am dead and gone write my life?

(As if any man really knew aught of my life,

Why even I myself I often think know little or nothing of my real life,

Only a few hints, a few diffused faint clews and indirections

I seek for my own use to trace out here.)

These sentiments rang true when I read Prairie Fires. What a contrast from the Little House books, not because the details of Laura’s childhood are so very different, but because it feels so impersonal, even lifeless at times.

For a final comparison, C.S. Lewis tells his readers in his introduction to Surprised by Joy: The Shape of My Early Life, “The story is, I fear, so suffocatingly subjective; the kind of thing I have never written before and shall probably never write again…” Lewis seems almost embarrassed to have written a book about himself, knowing as he does, that it is inescapably subjective and wholly constructed to fit his “joy” narrative. His is a humble, honest sentiment, one that I think Laura could have related to. But I’m not so sure about Fraser. If she offered any similar caveat, then I missed it. What I didn’t miss was her attempt to discredit Laura’s truthfulness (or at least sully it).

Her argument boils down to something like this: Laura’s story is such a powerful, wide-spread myth that it has erroneously shaped the American historical conscience of pioneer life. Contrary to what the Little House books depict, pioneer life was one big figurative prairie fire. Laura’s own experience was no different.

But is that fair? Was Laura’s life like a prairie fire? For that matter, was she lying to her readers in any way, overtly or otherwise? In order to answer those questions, it’s helpful to consider how Laura came to publish her series in the first place.

From Autobiography to Children’s Historical Fiction

Laura seems to have set out to tell a true story about her life, at least how she remembered it. On May 7, 1930, she shared six handwritten tablets containing her memoir, then titled Pioneer Girl, with her daughter Rose Lane. Rose, who was already an established author, began typing and revising the memoir the very next day, and the day after that, she sent a sample to her own agent, Carl Brandt. His initial feedback was positive, but by the following month, he sent word that he was unable to sell it.

From there, a fascinating mother-daughter collaboration began that ultimately produced both an adult version and a juvenile version of Pioneer Girl, the latter based on the Wisconsin chapter of the book alone. Rose kept the juvenile version a secret from her mother for reasons we can only speculate. When she approached Brandt again in October with the revised adult version, he advised her “not to try to sell [her] mother’s story.”

She didn’t take his advice. Instead, and perhaps for many other reasons, she acquired a new agent, George T. Bye, and passed both versions of the memoir onto him. On April 6, 1931, he wrote to Rose that the adult version “didn’t seem to have enough high points or crescendo. A fine old lady was sitting in a rocking chair and telling a story chronologically but with no benefit of perspective or theatre.” The juvenile version, however, which was roughly enough text for a picture book, was more promising. It made its way to Marion Fiery of Alfred A. Knopf Publishing House, and she liked it enough to ask for it to be rewritten as a chapter book.

At that point, Rose let her mother know about the juvenile version. Laura, as it turned out, had been wanting to write for children since as early as 1918. Her chance had finally come, and she thus began writing what would ultimately be the first book in her series, Little House in the Big Woods.

The children’s department at Knopf closed, however, before the book could be published, so it had to be circulated once more—but only briefly. It made its way to Virginia Kirkus of Harper & Brothers. She began reading Laura’s manuscript on a train and became so engrossed in it that she missed her stop. “One felt that one was listening, not reading,” she wrote later, “And picture after picture…flashed before my inward eye. I knew Laura—and the older Laura who was telling her story.”

Kirkus accepted the book, and in the process asked Laura to clarify the genre.

At some point, Laura’s memoir had strayed too far from the hard facts of real life to be considered an autobiography. She had finessed a plot, reimagined dialogue, woven in themes. The prose stopped resembling the tiresome droll of an old lady looking back on her life and began to sing like pure, youthful poetry. The book even opened with the fairy tale line: “Once upon a time…”

It was published as children’s historical fiction. That was a prudent decision, particularly given the intense scrutiny the work would face in years to come. And yet, no matter the precise classification of the Little House books, they remain Laura’s memoir precisely because she considered it the story of her life.

Lessons from Laura

What’s more, the fairy tale qualities of the Little House books are hardly an attempt to deceive. Rather, they reflect how deeply attuned Laura was to the innocence of children and the promise of their future.

Take, for example, the sad subject of her baby brother’s death. In Pioneer Girl, she says, “Little brother Freddie was not well, and the doctor came. I thought that would cure him, as it had cured Ma. But our little brother got worse instead of better, and one terrible day he straightened out his little body and was dead.” Worried the subject was too difficult for little children, she chose to exclude him entirely from the Little House books. Perhaps that makes the books less “true” in a way, but considering Laura’s target audience, there seems to be a higher principle at play there than strict honesty.

(Incidentally, the final book in the series, The First Four Years, does include the death of her son, but it was published posthumously, which means we have no idea where Laura was in the writing process of it and whether she even would have wanted it published as it was. More to our present point, William Anderson, an expert on Laura’s life and works, asserts that the manuscript was meant for an adult audience.)

In any case, Laura was not trying to paint her life—or prairie life in general—in purely rosy colors. Pa’s struggles to get by, the unfair displacement of the Native Americans, the devasting locusts, Mary’s blindness, the long winter, and so much more hardship remained. Those were realities and lessons she thought children should hear about. Those were the kinds of things that taught children “courage, self reliance, independence, integrity and helpfulness,” as she so oft stated. Laura’s narrative voice on those subjects is at once stoic and reflective, revealing that happiness can be found in the toughest of times, grief can indeed be turned to joy.

Perhaps that is what makes it more of a fairy tale for some. Or maybe, just maybe, Laura did find happiness in the midst of such hardships. Either way, Laura’s life story is first and foremost her own to tell. The Little House books may not be perfectly factual, but they are certainly True, and the trouble with Truth is that it does not depend on facts; it depends on Itself.

To those looking to learn more about Laura’s life story from a factual perspective, Prairie Fires is a fascinating synthesis of a seemingly unending collection of available resources. Just remember, its narrative is also constructed.

To those who simply want to savor the lessons Laura left in her books, I hope you’ll read on as I consider some of them through the following motifs: a little house, Pa’s fiddle, Laura’s rag doll, Mary’s eyes, and Almanzo’s horses. Along the way, I will also be sharing sentence classifications and diagrams that integrate my love of language with Laura’s story.

Images courtesy of Wiki Commons

Posted on August 8, 2022 by Stephanie McGann

Exercise for a Storyteller #5: Play with an Archetype

Understanding the role of archetypes in stories is essential for an aspiring storyteller. Not to be confused with stereotypes, an archetype is a literary term that refers to a “first type” or “fundamental type” of character or other story element. “Damsels in distress” and “knights in shining armor” are typical examples of archetypes found in the legend of King Arthur, which subsequent stories have come to replicate in various forms.

For example, C.S. Lewis has many knights in shining armor in his Chronicles of Narnia, albeit with his own distinct twists. Peter is a perfect example of this. Though a young boy and living in the mid-twentieth century, he is very much a knight, ready and willing to make personal sacrifices to save others. As for damsels in distress, Susan is the only one of his Narnia characters who fits this type, albeit in a spiritual rather than a literal way.

Tolkien also uses many archetypes from King Arthur in his telling of The Lord of the Rings. His truest knight in shining armor is Aragorn, although his entire fellowship—from Frodo to Gimli—could rightly fall into this type. Like Lewis, Tolkien’s a little short on damsels in distress, but he makes ample use of another of my favorite archetypes from King Arthur: the “hero’s dilemma.”

This one refers to when a hero must choose between two opposed, but seemingly equally worthy tasks. For example, should one of Arthur’s knights save a damsel in distress from certain death or catch a villain bound to kill untold numbers? Of course, he would love to do both, but he can’t—that’s the dilemma.

In The Lord of the Rings, Aragorn faces a hero’s dilemma when he must decide whether to follow after Frodo and Sam and help them destroy the Ring, or try to rescue Merry and Pippin from their Orc captors. The heaviness of this decision weighs on the reader as much as it does on the characters.

(Luckily, for Middle Earth, helping Merry and Pippin in the short term ultimately helps everyone in the long term!)

While there are considerably more than these three archetypes, I find them to be the most useful starting places for my students. No matter what we’re reading, I can ask them a question like, “Is there a knight in shining armor in this story?”

Chances are, if the story is medieval, the answer will be yes. But if the story is more ancient, say a Greek myth or an Aesop fable, then the answer is a lot more nuanced. The same is true with a more modern story.

Take Huck Finn, for example. Is he a knight in shining armor? Though his ragged clothes would suggest otherwise, he does have a lot of the necessary characteristics. After all, he is trying to “rescue” Jim from slavery. Then again, maybe he’s a type of damsel in distress since Jim is rescuing him, too.

The point of asking whether Huck, or any character, is a knight in shining armor is not so much to force him into a box. Rather, it’s to show a child how archetypes define all characters in some way. Once a child understands that archetypes are part of a longstanding pattern in stories, then he can begin to adapt the pattern to his liking.

Here is an example of how I use these archetypes for storytelling in my classroom.

First, I have my students choose one of our two main character archetypes—a knight in shining armor or a damsel in distress—and create a new character based on it. Perhaps the new character will fit the original type closely (think Batman or Lad, a Dog). Or perhaps the new character will completely defy it (think Shrek or Princess Fiona). Either way is fine. As part of that process, I also have them interview their character as described in this previous post.

Once the new character is more or less imagined, I have my students create an archetypical “hero’s dilemma” that suits the character. The magnitude of that dilemma could be as serious as saving a life or as trivial as picking out shoes for prom. Again, it’s totally up to them.

Last of all, I have my students write the scene of their dilemma through the point when their character makes his or her choice. We always share as many stories aloud as possible, and this kind of story is a particularly fun one to listen to as a class. Because it contains a hero’s dilemma, we like voting on whether the hero made the right choice or not. Inevitably, there is a lot of disagreement among us, and that’s a sign that the dilemma was appropriately compelling.

Although it’s unlikely that C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien ever sat down with a teacher and completed an exercise like this, it seems fairly obvious that they were thinking in these terms when they wrote their great stories. No matter the precise method, the aspiring storyteller will benefit tremendously from writing with archetypes.

And it’s fun and easy, too. After all, there’s no need to re-invent the archetype—just play around with it.

First Image Credit: The Fight in the Queen’s Ante-chamber by Walter Crane, 1911

Second Image Credit: Huckleberry Finn and Jim on Their Raft by E.W. Kemble, 1884