When I was in first grade in a tiny, tiny town in Arkansas, and hating school with the heat of a thousand suns, each member of the class was given identical packages at Christmas time. But for me, as a child, they WERE "amazing," and here's why. OK, so I'm a little generous with the whole Little House series. On re-reading, I thought the series must be missing the volumes "Little House on the San Andreas Fault", "On the Slopes of Angry Volcano" and "By the Toxic Tidepools of Three-Mile Island."
As an adult, however, I thought Pa came off like a flakey dreamer who put his family through years of hell, always claiming "Caroline! If you just put up with backbreaking labor, mortal danger and starving kids for a few years, just watch! This expanse of desert/marsh/frozen tundra will become the breadbasket of the world and make us rich as kings!" How Ma Ingalls put up with his crazy schemes for so long is a testament t her patience/holy doormat-ness. I still found it immensely enjoyable, but with one striking difference: When I was a child, Pa Ingalls seemed like the coolest dad on the planet - he played the fiddle, made his own bullets and took his family on all sorts of adventures all over the unsettled west. When my son was an infant and I was looking for something to entertain me during his marathon bouts of nursing, I decided to read the series again. Like so many people, I read and loved these books as a girl.
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