Little House on the Prairie—A Review of Sorts

Dear Dad,

Do you remember how obsessed I was with Little House on the Prairie when I was a kid? I was never one for liking television or sitting still, but every evening, at five o’clock, you could find me plopped down in the living room watching Little House. I didn’t want to miss an episode, even though I’m certain I had seen them all multiple times over the years. Laura, of course, was my favorite character. I liked her so much I wanted to be her. In fact, it was while watching the show all those years ago, that I decided I wanted to be a writer. Like Laura, I wanted to be an author, record my daily life, and someday publish my stories. I wanted to write books that children and/or adults would read. I’ve spent much of my adulthood chasing that dream. I guess I still am.

I suppose it would be fair to say that my love of the Little House stories and Laura’s life border a bit on obsession. Last year, when I was diagnosed as being autistic, I learned most autistic people have one or more special interests, something that will hold their attention for hours at time, something they know more about than the average person should, something that absorbs more energy than seems normal. Needless to say, it was not hard to look back on my childhood and realize that this probably explained my fanaticism.

One year, in second or third grade, I came home from school with the Scholastic Book flier and begged you to buy me the Little House books. There are nine books, but you agreed to buy me three: Little House in the Big Woods, Little House on the Prairie, and Farmer Boy. Those three books came as a set. However, you promised me that if I finished them you would be happy to buy me the rest. The problem was, back in those days, I hated to read. Reading required me to sit still and there wasn’t anything I hated more than not being in motion. As a result, the books sat on my end table collecting dust. It wasn’t until I was in college and taking a course on children’s literature that I decided to finally read the books that I had neglected for more than a decade. When I finished the three you had gotten for me, I asked for the others, but you laughed, informing me that the promise had expired. That didn’t stop me. I took a trip to the bookstore and purchased the remaining six books which I then devoured rather quickly. I have a very clear memory of sitting on a bus on a the way home from a track meet and reading The Long Winter.

For years, I had wanted to visit one of Laura’s homes. They are scattered across the midwest, a map of her travels as a pioneer and her life as a daughter and wife to homesteaders. During the second summer of COVID, in July 2021, my family and I took a long road trip that brought us to South Dakota. Our first stop in the state, upon crossing the boarder ,was in De Smet where I had the opportunity to see where Laura and her family lived when they first arrived in the Dakota Territory. Two years later, my son and I were on another road trip and I could not resist the urge to detour first to Independence, Kansas, and then a week or so later, to Mansfield, Missouri. Independence is where the events in the book Little House on the Prairie took place. The log cabin on site is a replica, the original was long gone by the time the exact location was discovered. It didn’t matter. Being there, stepping into the house, still felt like a religious experience. G3 didn’t agree. He sat under a tree reading a Stephen King novel and grumbling about how King is a much better author. I ignored him. Laura wasn’t just an author. She encapsulated an entire era of American History. She captured a way of life and set it down in a way that children could understand. And not just children. Historians have been known to quote her work. Mansfield, Missouri is where she moved with Almanzo after their house in South Dakota burned down. It was her final home, and there is even a museum on site. A museum that houses many relics of Laura’s life including her father’s fiddle. For my fiftieth birthday—two years ago—Kati took me to Malone, New York for a long weekend. Malone is where Laura’s husband, Almanzo, grew up. It is where Farmer Boy takes place. Whereas I once upon a time dreamed of visiting one of Laura’s houses, I would now like to collect all of them. (Apparently, collecting things is also an autistic trait.) That means I desperately need to take another road trip, one to Pipen, Wisconsin and Walnut Grove, Minnesota. I believe those are the only two remaining homes left for me to visit. (Anyone up for a road trip? I’m unemployed, which means I have the time. But we’ll have to camp because I’m unemployed and have no money.)

Considering this special interest—that I have very obviously never outgrown—it will not surprise you to know that I was excited to see the new Netflix series. The series was released on July 9—your mother’s birthday, and the 28th anniversary of Libby’s death. (The two hour pilot movie for the original series back in 1974 premiered in March, but the first episode of the first season aired on September 11, 1974—the day I was born. Not just the day. The exact date. It’s like I was fated to fall into this obsession. Sorry, I apparently have a thing for dates, numbers, that provide a personal connection to things.) The new series dropped while we were still in Alaska, so I was unable to watch it on its release day, as I very well might have if I had been home. Instead, we—G3 rolled his eyes, but Kati graciously agreed to sit with me—watched the first episode the day after we landed and the day before I left for Cape Cod. To say I was disappointed would be an extreme understatement.

The initial series was not accurate. Not even close. The original series took place in Walnut Grove which was the town mentioned in On the Banks of Plum Creek. It lasted nine seasons and took the audience up through Laura’s marriage without ever having her move to the Dakota Territory. While the names of some of the characters were taken from the books, the writers and director took many liberties. But I was a child when I started watching the show, and a reluctant reader, which meant I had no idea that I was being duped. But it didn’t matter. I adored Laura and absolutely loved the life she lived. I wanted to be her and would have traded every modern convince for her life in a heartbeat. It is conceivable that I still would. It might be relevant to note that she was sixty-five when her first book was published. I suppose I beat her by fourteen years. True, her books were an instant sensation and sold many copies. My book did not do nearly as well. But I have thirteen years to catch up. Perhaps my fortune will change. Perhaps I can still achieve success and leave a mark in the literary world. Maybe now is a good time to remember the best compliment I’ve ever received as a writer. I was in college taking a course titled “Writing for Children.” After reading one of my assignments, my professor commented that my writing was reminiscent of Laura Ingalls Wilder. I think I floated out of the classroom that day. But I digress.

The difference between my childhood self and my adult self is that my adult self has read all the Little House books—twice. Some I read three times because I read them to G3 when he was little. Therefore, adult me knows what really happened, or rather what Laura wrote as having happened, which means adult me is far more critical of any fictionalizing than eight year old me ever could have or would have been. As a kid, I could appreciate the story as I watched it. I had nothing to compare it to. Sometimes naivety or ignorance can be beneficial. In the first thirty seconds of the new Netflix series, I was dismayed. In the book, Little House on the Prairie, Laura is three years old and her older sister, Mary is five. On screen Laura looked about eleven or twelve and Mary was at least fourteen. However, I was pleased that the story was taking place in what was then “Indian Country,” because that was the setting of the book. I’m not sure we had been watching for more than ten minutes when Kati told me to stop talking and just watch the show. I had been busy critiquing everything that was “wrong” with the story. Laura and Marry were too old and Carrie was not yet born. In the book, she was a baby. We only find out several episodes in that Caroline is pregnant, which doesn’t make any sense at all. Back in those days there most likely would not have been such a big gap between the ages of Laura and Carrie as there is in the show.

While Mr. Edwards is an endearing character both in the book and on screen, the men share only a few similarities. I was pleased that the writers kept the bit about him meeting Santa on a snowy Christmas Eve, but the rest of his on screen story was too inventive for my liking. Mr. Scott was also a real person who got sick from the toxic air in the Ingalls’ well, however, in real life, he wasn’t a bachelor. In the book, Dr. Tan is memorial, not only because he treats the Ingalls family when they fall ill from malaria, but because he is the only African-America character in all of her books. However, he’s only mentioned briefly, whereas in the show he’s a main character.

The town of Independence is far more built up and lively in the show than in the book. There are more characters and the Ingalls family spends a great deal of time socializing with the town’s people which Laura never wrote about. As for the Osage, the Native Americans who lived in that that part of Kansas before their land was stolen, while the depiction of them was not as egregious as it could have been—as it often is in TV and movies—it was not completely accurate either. In the book, the Osage were described as stinking and wearing very little clothing. The white settlers, including the Ingalls family, were afraid of them. In the show, their clothing was slightly more modern, and while the settlers did express some fear, the friendship that developed between the Ingalls family and one Osage family was completely fictional.

In short, my knowledge of the books rendered me incapable of appreciating the show. Maybe, if it had simply been a series about white settlers in Independence, Kansas, I might have liked it, but using the Ingalls name made it impossible for me to sit back and enjoy the story. Still, as disappointed as I was in the telling, you can be sure that I will tune in for Season 2 when it drops next year.

I still miss you!

Me in the Little House on the Prairie in Independence, Kansas