Two children’s books — one from the middle of the 19th Century, the other from the end of the 20th, have a special place in my heart, for different reasons. One was a gift to my grandmother from her mother; the other I read to my daughter almost a hundred years later.

My favorite children’s book is titled “Frog Medicine”, published in 1996 by Scholastic, and no doubt forgotten, judging by its four dollar price on EBay. Although beloved in our family, we have lost our copy. It tells the story of a ten-year old boy who keeps putting off writing a book report. His teacher selects “Frog Medicine” for him. He’s not impressed, and throws it in the closet. He awakens the day before it’s due to see that his feet have morphed into those of a frog, and his doctor recommends a visit to a practitioner of frog medicine.  Not surprisingly, this practitioner is a frog who takes our student on a ride through a non-threatening but Dante-esque Canto in a very wet underworld before it all ends happily ever after.

I remember little of the plot details, which ultimately don’t matter. The charm of the book, to me, is captured perfectly in the picture on the cover where the boy, his cat, and the frog doc are all captured perfectly, each with different expressions on their faces. To see all the art depicting this underworld, you’ll have to spring for the four dollars (free shipping!) and send it to EBay. This book is now enshrined in our family lore, although I cannot honestly say that our children were ever as captivated as their parents were, and still remain by this piece of children’s literature.

But I want to share another book which we all know to one degree or another. I have not read all of it, although I’ve seen a film version by Sacramento’s own Greta Gerwig.

I suspect that most women of our generation (my wife, certainly) spent hours reading and re-reading Louisa May Alcott’s “Little Women” in their childhood. I did not, (spending my time reading the Hardy Boys and other literary classics instead.)  I was entranced, however, when I saw Gerwig’s rendition when I watched it two years ago — entranced enough so that I went looking for an old copy that I knew was hidden somewhere in our house, its two volumes tied together with twine. And there in the top shelf of a secretary (with glass doors and books behind the glass) was the copy I was looking for. Its two green volumes were tied together. The first volume had glued to it a printed label with my great grandmother’s name, which continued, “from” and then in pencil, “Mama.” There’s also a penciled name on the next page that I don’t recognize, and glued to that page is a printed picture titled “Alcott House, Concord, Mass.” I got excited looking at the title page which at the bottom said, Boston Roberts Brothers 1869; and turning the page I saw a sentence attesting to the fact that it was “entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by Louisa M Alcott.”

The second of the two books, also in a green cover, looked nearly identical, but the title page also says “Part Second” and a date, 1870, is at the bottom of the page.

Significantly, neither volume (or “Part”) says anything about what printing or “impression” I had in my hand. We have a few old books, but all say what edition they are, or list several copyright dates. First editions, I know, don’t always say so. Perhaps it’s tempting fate or exhibiting two much hubris for an author or publisher to label a book as a “first edition.” In any event, a non-exhaustive internet search showed other books that looked exactly like the one in our house, complete with the same “Alcott House” pictured glued inside, although the one I saw online looked in better shape. The conclusion I draw from this is that I was holding in my hand a genuine first edition of this American classic. In perfect shape, on sale for $25,000. In my case, no doubt worth far less. But a wonderful discovery nevertheless, and a cultural link to the woman in the wedding dress I have pictured from 1920 hanging on our bedroom wall as reported in my earlier story, “A Picture, a Mirror, and a Copper Plate.”

Having enjoyed Greta Gerwig’s film adaptation, maybe I’ll read the book. But in deference to the age of my copy, I think I’ll get a modern printing. Surely it must be out of copyright and not too expensive.

The Indoor Noisy Book by Margaret Wise Brown was written in 1942. I received a hardcover copy of it in the 1950s. This  book, a colorfully illustrated story of the little dog Muffin who has a cold and must stay inside to rest,  was a gift from my across-the-street neighbor John.

John was a bit younger than I was, but we were constant companions. We spent many happy hours playing together in his rumpus room, or on the swings in his backyard, or spellbound in front of the TV when “The Mickey Mouse Club” came on. We pretended to be our personal favorites on the show: Karen and Cubby.

We went to each other’s birthday parties, and one year, he gave me a copy of  The Indoor Noisy Book. He had written: “To Risa from John” inside with a crayon. The slanted leg on the “R” was doing a high kick and the “s” was backwards. We were around 4 years old.

At my birthday party. John is standing next to me in those crazy striped pants.

The book lives up to its title: all the sounds in and around the household, from footsteps coming up the stairs, to the noises in the kitchen, to the telephone ringing, and the rain turning into sleet and falling on the roof are spelled out and illustrated. The main characters wear old-fashioned clothes and they live in a fancy house with a cook.

There is some guesswork involved at the end, with very silly suggestions about who exactly was coming up the stairs to see Muffin. I loved that book. I kept it in the room my sister and I shared far beyond the time when it was age appropriate.

 

John moved away when we were still quite young, and beside the black and white birthday party photos of a strawberry blond boy squinting into the sun, that dear boy who was really kind of shy, the book was the only memento I had to remember him by. As I recall, his family came back to Richmond for a visit once or twice. We were shy around each other then, having lost the every-dayness of our friendship.

 

My family moved several years later, and I took the book with me.
I moved out of my parents’ house when I was seventeen, and I packed the book along with my special letters and cards. It survived several moves after that, and had a spot on our bookshelf in the first little apartment my husband and I lived in after we got married.

Eventually, I read this book to my three children, who still say, “The little dog Muffin has a cold,” when they or their children are sick– even now that they are all grown up.

 

But the book was lost, along with everything else, when our house burned to the ground in the fire of 1991. It may not have been the first thing I mourned, but I did feel the loss. The fire happened shortly before my 40th birthday, and if there was ever a symbol of my youth . . . this was it. A silly, sweet child’s book–with my name and a backwards “s” inscribed in crayon by my best childhood friend. Treasures come in all sizes, and this one was huge–at least to me.

Several years ago, my daughter located a copy of the book on eBay and surprised me with it on Christmas.
I laughed, I cried, I read it out loud through my tears. We all loved that book.

The link to my girlhood was restored–and it made me as happy as the little dog Muffin, when he could go outside again to listen to the birds and the trucks.

 

My dad was a genuinely nice guy. He worked a lot when I was young, but we became very close when I went off to Brandeis and he left the auto industry. Ironically, we had more time to talk then. As many in my family knew, there was nothing one couldn’t say to him. He was a great listener, kept secrets, gave good, fatherly advice, even if I didn’t always follow it. He was a man of simple pleasures. He loved his family, a drink (Seagram’s 7 or Crown Royal) when he came home from work, to watch his favorite sports teams on TV, to play as much golf as possible, and a good card game (poker and bridge). He (along with oldest brother Art) was the family photographer. Therefore, there aren’t many photographs of him. He was always behind the camera. And he was so good at listening, that I didn’t think to ask questions of him.

He was the youngest of eight children. He went into the Army Air Corps in January, 1941, eleven months before the outbreak of war. I have a letter from his oldest sister, Pauline, chastising him for that move – what happens if the U.S. doesn’t enter the war? What then? He loved his time in the military. It simulated a family unit for him. He stayed in touch with his commanding officer until the day he died. My brother and I found his Christmas card list on his desk when we cleaned out his condo. I took up that correspondence as a form of devotion.

Dad was born on November 23, 1913. His mother was bipolar. There was no medication for the disorder then. My grandmother Lizzie had her last two children to “cure” her. It was observed that her mood swings were less severe with the pregnancy hormones onboard.

I used to tell a feeble joke that I’d be crazy too if I had eight children. But it wasn’t funny. The family tried to soothe her. I’ve heard stories that she came after my grandfather with various implements. One cousin told me it was the pestle from a mortar and pestle that Aunt Pauline later owned. Another cousin told of Lizzie coming at Sam with a kitchen knife. I gather my grandfather liked the women.

Lizzie was first institutionalized when my dad was eight years old and permanently when he was twelve. Another sister was called home from college to tend to the household and the boys who were still at home. Lizzie outlived Sam by four years. My parents were newlyweds when his mother died. My mother told me that Dad sobbed in her arms. He was a sentimental man, but that image haunted me.

It never occurred to me to ask my father what that felt like; how had he coped with the loss of his mother at such a young age. Yet she wasn’t dead. Indeed, there is a family photo from 1926 of all of them together. She lived twenty more years.

But she was no longer a presence in his life. And if she was, it must have been confusing. One out-of-town cousin told me she visited Lizzie in the sanatorium. Lizzie demanded her granddaughter pull up her dress to prove her underwear was clean. Such irrational behavior must have been bewildering for a little boy who craved his mother’s love. I even have two letters written by a doctor from the sanatorium, passed from one sibling to the next; an update on their mother’s condition. I never thought to ask my father how that affected him. I’m not sure he processed it.

Dad died, suddenly, on January 3, 1990. I was the last person to speak with him. His oldest sister Pauline had been buried that day. The family was in shock. How could they lose the oldest and the youngest just days apart. There was so much left unsaid between us. I was bereft.

I couldn’t let more time pass. His death prompted me to contact his surviving siblings, his surviving first cousins and my own close cousins to try to piece together a family history. It took me two years (I had very young children at home and when I began the project, I didn’t even have access to any form of word processing. At first, it was all done by hand). The last person I wrote about was my own father, putting together the comments from all my cousins. Though no one would answer my questions about growing up with or without their mother, I realize that I had written Dad’s eulogy and could finally let him rest in peace.

 

So-so actress; better stage manager.

Didn’t have the drive or thick enough skin to go to New York and try for Broadway; married at 21. Took a crummy job doing data entry. Sang while I key-punched.

While eavesdropping on the salesman in the office next door I had an epiphany – I could do this!

Took inventory of my skills: good with people, quick on my feet, not afraid to ask questions, well-organized, good presentation skills.

Convinced someone to hire me. Moved to Chicago to take my first sales job. Worked hard. Was successful!

Moved home.

Best in New England.

 

 

#RetroFlash/100 words