Reading with my Kids: The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame

Source of book: I own a lovely hardback edition of this book.

The Wind in the Willows has long been one of my favorite books. Not one of my favorite childrens’ book, but one of my favorite books, period. I must admit, I really relished reading this with my kids for this month’s book at the Reading to Know Book Club.

My wife read this with our older kids some years back, but they were pretty young, and didn’t remember it that well. The boys probably weren’t old enough back then, so it was very new to them.

Kenneth Grahame was a man trapped in a life that he hated. After his mother died, his father abandoned him to be raised by relatives - although he apparently did have a pleasant childhood. He was on track to attend the university, but finances were lacking, and the relatives that did have money refused to step in. He got a job working at a bank in London. His heart was far from the city, though. In many ways, Grahame reminds me of my father-in-law, who never did embrace the life of a city lawyer, and is happiest when out in the wilderness, far from civilization.

A shy and reserved man, Grahame found an outlet in writing. Some early essays and stories were published in the 1890s, and he eventually gained some success, although not enough to completely support himself.

At age 40, Grahame married an “elderly” spinster (she was 38), a marriage which was disappointing to both of them. They had one child, and both poured their attention into him. Grahame told little Alistair a series of stories, which eventually became The Wind in the Willows.

In many ways, the book is quite obviously Grahame’s own escapist fantasy. He was too moral of a man to abandon his family like his father did. (After the book sold well, he was able to retire from the bank, and move to the country, thankfully.) Each of the characters represents a facet of his personality in a way. The irresponsible and spontaneous Mr. Toad that he wishes he could be. Mole, full of wonder, emotion, and loyalty. The carefree yet competent Water Rat. Eternal bachelor Badger. The book also is dominated by the two contrasting ideas which warred within Grahame’s own self: The lure of the open road and adventure, and the security and comfort of a well-beloved home.

Perhaps this is why I identified with this book as a child, young adult, and even now in my middle age. I am a bit of a homebody, but I also love the wilderness, the open road, and adventures. As long as I can come back to my home and my roots. I would also say that I identify with all of the characters except for Toad - although I love him as a character. I can have Badger’s prickly introversion, and I feel that sometimes I am called upon to be the one reliably responsible person. I am generally practical like Ratty; if you want to plan an excursion, you definitely want me to pack your picnic basket. But at heart, I think I am much like Mole. I prefer to be the second banana. I feel affection for home, and for friends and family. I am a romantic at heart.

The Wind in the Willows is prose, but only barely. It is about as poetic as writing can be without being actually poetry. It is so easy and pleasant to be caught up in the flow of the words and in the worlds that Grahame creates. I like reading aloud, and I think I am pretty good at it, even though my tongue is not the most nimble when I get going fast. However, it is very rare for me to feel like the world has disappeared and that all that I can hear is the words and sounds as they rush past in a tumult of beauty. (At least while reading prose to my kids. Reading poetry aloud, even if I am the only one listening, is a transcendent experience more often than not. Much like music as I experience it.) I found myself forgetting that I had listeners while we read this book. Like other masterpieces for young readers, it improves as one gets older.

Fortunately, my kids loved this book as well. They got the humor, and quickly picked up the word “conceited,” which is the only way to refer to Toad.

One of the parts they liked the best was the description of the picnic basket.

`What's inside it?' asked the Mole, wriggling with curiosity.

  `There's cold chicken inside it,' replied the Rat briefly; “coldtonguecoldhamcoldbeefpickledgherkinssaladfrenchrollscress-

san dwichespottedmeatgingerbeerlemonadesodawater -- -- '

  `O stop, stop,' cried the Mole in ecstacies: `This is too much!'

It was fun to run all the words together, but even better for my older three when they tried to read the long word themselves.

We also enjoyed the saga of the doormat. Mole and Rat have become lost in the Wild Wood during a snowstorm, and are trying to either find their way out, or find shelter. After discovering a door scraper, they poke around some more.

After some further toil his efforts were rewarded, and a very shabby door-mat lay exposed to view.

  `There, what did I tell you?' exclaimed the Rat in great triumph.

  `Absolutely nothing whatever,' replied the Mole, with perfect truthfulness. `Well now,' he went on, `you seem to have found another piece of domestic litter, done for and thrown away, and I suppose you're perfectly happy. Better go ahead and dance your jig round that if you've got to, and get it over, and then perhaps we can go on and not waste any more time over rubbish-heaps. Can we eat a doormat? or sleep under a door-mat? Or sit on a door-mat and sledge home over the snow on it, you exasperating rodent?'

  `Do -- you -- mean -- to -- say,' cried the excited Rat, `that this door-mat doesn't tell you anything?'

  `Really, Rat,' said the Mole, quite pettishly, `I think we'd had enough of this folly. Who ever heard of a door-mat telling anyone anything? They simply don't do it. They are not that sort at all. Door-mats know their place.'

If you can read this without laughing, you have a hard, cold heart indeed.

I also should note (since I am, after all, a lawyer) the farcical courtroom scene.

`To my mind,' observed the Chairman of the Bench of Magistrates cheerfully, `the only difficulty that presents itself in this otherwise very clear case is, how we can possibly make it sufficiently hot for the incorrigible rogue and hardened ruffian whom we see cowering in the dock before us. Let me see: he has been found guilty, on the clearest evidence, first, of stealing a valuable motor-car; secondly, of driving to the public danger; and, thirdly, of gross impertinence to the rural police. Mr. Clerk, will you tell us, please, what is the very stiffest penalty we can impose for each of these offences? Without, of course, giving the prisoner the benefit of any doubt, because there isn't any.'

  The Clerk scratched his nose with his pen. `Some people would consider,' he observed, `that stealing the motor-car was the worst offence; and so it is. But cheeking the police undoubtedly carries the severest penalty; and so it ought. Supposing you were to say twelve months for the theft, which is mild; and three years for the furious driving, which is lenient; and fifteen years for the cheek, which was pretty bad sort of cheek, judging by what we've heard from the witness-box, even if you only believe one-tenth part of what you heard, and I never believe more myself -- those figures, if added together correctly, tot up to nineteen years -- -- '

  `First-rate!' said the Chairman.

  ` -- So you had better make it a round twenty years and be on the safe side,' concluded the Clerk.

  `An excellent suggestion!' said the Chairman approvingly. `Prisoner! Pull yourself together and try and stand up straight. It's going to be twenty years for you this time. And mind, if you appear before us again, upon any charge whatever, we shall have to deal with you very seriously!'

Anyone who has seriously contemplated the Federal sentencing guidelines (or just about any corresponding state guidelines) knows that sometimes the penalties seem as silly as the ones described here. And as calculated to punish non-cooperation with authority figures as to prevent actual crime.

However, in Grahame’s fantasy world, foibles are forgiven, and sentences are hardly carried out with severity. Toad gets his comeuppance, and may even reform by the end of the book, but he is still shown love. He is forced to make restitution, of course, but his life isn’t ended by his past mistakes. And we all suspect, deep in our heart of hearts, that Toad will be off on another ludicrous lark before too much longer.

Sadly, Grahame’s life would never experience that happy ending. Alistair was found dead on a train track in what was almost certainly a suicide, although the authorities ruled it an accident to avoid embarrassing the family. Sadly for us, The Wind in the Willows would prove to be Grahame’s last significant work. Thus, this sunny and idyllic work has a slightly bitter tinge in light of its history.

I should specifically mention a few chapters which made a huge impression on me when I was young. Chapter VII, “The Piper at the Gates of Dawn” is one of those rare passages which capture the unworldly feeling one gets in nature sometimes. (I can think of a few: Standing in Richardson Grove in the California Redwoods as a child, with the sunbeams coming down through the lingering fog; watching an approaching thunderstorm in Arizona and then having the lightning all around; standing at the top of Yellowstone falls and feeling the roar in my very feet; viewing the high sierra peaks from the top of Half Dome; the murky half-darkness at 100 feet below the surface of the Pacific Ocean, watching 600 pound sea bass swim by. I could go on.) Grahame captures this wonder, and when the demi-god Pan makes his appearance, it comes as no surprise to those of us who have experienced the feeling. The myth comes from the feeling and describes it.

Second, Chapter IX, “Wayfarers All,” is an amazing musing on the power of the escapist fantasy. Even Ratty, who is so sensible most of the time, is nearly carried away. I know the feeling, and yet am glad that I too have a Mole inside of me that brings me back to reality and that grounding that I know I need.

So really, if you have never read this book, you need to. If you haven’t read it since you were a child, I guarantee you missed some things. Go back and re-read!

Note on other media:  Most are probably familiar with this book through Disney’s old cartoon (which also included some of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.) That one that inspired Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride at Disneyland. (One of my favorites as a kid. Even if Amanda and I did break down in hell when we went there while dating.) Disney took some pretty great liberties with the plot, and left out most of the great lines from the book. Not a bad movie, but don’t expect to know the book from the movie.

However, there was also another movie version, made by Cosgrove Hall in 1983, using stop motion. While slow paced and rather “British,” it is remarkably faithful to the book, and charming in its detail. You can also see it online:

UPDATE November 13, 2023:

I re-read this with my youngest recently. (My next-to-the youngest listened in most of the time too. It is always a bit sad to realize that you are experiencing a "last time." After three times through, I will likely not read this book with one of my kids again. Cross fingers for grandkids or some other kids who want to read it. My youngest loves the book in a way that the others do not, relishing the conceited and transgressive Toad, enjoying the lust of the open road, and laughing at the silly songs. My next older kid liked it as well, so they are the two that "got" it, I think. Kids are not clones of their parents, of course, and it is silly to expect that they will love the same things. But it does make me happy to know that at least a couple of them understand my love for this book. 

 

 

 

Reading With My Kids: The Hobbit by J. R. R. Tolkien

Source of book: I own a marvelous hardback edition of this book. Illustrated by Alan Lee.

Reading this book with my kids brought back lots of memories. The unpleasant one I address in a footnote. But most of them are good. I was introduced to Tolkien when I was around age ten or so, when my dad read it to me and my siblings. (He also introduced us to C. S. Lewis’ space trilogy, and created a PG rated version of Tom Clancy’s Red Storm Rising on the fly.) I would read The Lord of the Rings soon thereafter on my own. Along with the Narnia books, The Arabian Nights, and the usual fairy tales, Tolkien’s works would form the backbone of my experience with fantasy and magic. 

"On the Edge of Mirkwood" - Alan Lee's illustration in The Hobbit. 

For the few who do not know, Alan Lee's marvelous illustrations were so good that Peter Jackson hired him (and the equally amazing John Howe to direct the art concepts for the movie versions.

The Hobbit, much more than its successors, is a children’s book. The plot is exciting - and easy to understand as a child. The characters, although memorable, are not overly deep. Except perhaps Bilbo Baggins. The issues faced by the characters are clear enough, but lack the nuance that Tolkien would develop in his later works. The humor is direct and a bit broad sometimes, and there is little that went over the heads of my kids. I had to explain a few words here and there, and a few ideas, but they kept up just fine, and laughed and shuddered at the appropriate times.

Needless to say, they loved this book. I enjoyed it too, as I have each time I have read it. (I also got to see the first of the Hobbit movies at this time, so it was interesting to compare them.)

I think that the character of Bilbo is particularly well suited to children’s literature. He is a reluctant adventurer who oscillates between excitement and fear. Often, he wishes he was back home, but cannot resist the part of him that enjoys the danger. He starts off naive and largely helpless, but gains experience and skills as he goes. He expands his universe from the tiny world of the Shire to include much that is good and noble, and much that is evil and treacherous. Thus, despite Bilbo’s nominal status as a middle-aged man, he is easy to identify with as a child. The Hobbit is thus an adventure and a coming-of-age story rolled into one.

While the plotting and descriptions are good, the characterization is a bit weak - again, to be expected in a children’s book. Bilbo is well developed, and we get a bit of a glimpse of Thorin, the tragic hero. Gollum is unforgettable, of course, and we are allowed to see inside his head, although not nearly as much as in The Lord of the Rings. Gandalf has his moments in the first part of the book. But the dwarves all tend to run together.

On the other hand, Tolkien shows flashes of the his descriptive powers in the scenes with Gollum and Beorn, and in the extended episodes in Mirkwood and the Lonely Mountain.

I loved reading the part of Gollum to the kids - and I think I do a pretty good job. “Thief, thief, thief! Baggins! We hates it, we hates it, we hates it forever!”

And, of course, the poetry. Tolkien’s poems roll off the tongue much like the old ballads that they imitate. There is music there, even when no tune is given. My children so far seem to have inherited at least a bit of my poetic bent, particularly my eldest daughter, who steals my Wordsworth book from time to time. Here is the Dwarves’ song before they set out on their journey. It absolutely must be read aloud.

Far over the misty mountains cold

To dungeons deep and caverns old

We must away ere break of day

To seek the pale enchanted gold.

The dwarves of yore made mighty spells,

While hammers fell like ringing bells

In places deep, where dark things sleep,

In hollow halls beneath the fells.

For ancient king and elvish lord

There many a gleaming golden hoard

They shaped and wrought, and light they caught

To hide in gems on hilt of sword.

On silver necklaces they strung

The flowering stars, on crowns they hung

The dragon-fire, in twisted wire

They meshed the light of moon and sun.

Far over the misty mountains cold

To dungeons deep and caverns old

We must away, ere break of day

To claim our long-forgotten gold.

Goblets they carved there for themselves

And harps of gold; where no man delves

There lay they long, and many a song

Was sung unheard by men or elves.

The pines were roaring on the height,

The winds were moaning in the night.

The fire was red, it flaming spread;

The trees like torches blazed with light.

The bells were ringing in the dale

And men looked up with faces pale;

The dragon’s ire more fierce than fire

Laid low their towers and houses frail.

The mountain smoked beneath the moon;

The dwarves they heard the tramp of doom.

They fled their hall to dying fall

Beneath his feet, beneath the moon.

Far over the misty mountains grim

To dungeons deep and caverns dim

We must away, ere break of day,

To win our harps and gold from him!

My very favorite of the poems is “The Road Goes Ever On and On,” but in the version Bilbo sings at the beginning of The Fellowship of the Ring, rather than the Hobbit version.

Finally, Tolkien captures a vision of goodness that has always spoken to all of us who never expect or intend to be heros on a large stage. Those of us who really prefer to do good in little, everyday ways. And those of us who love a good meal, friends, and a song. As Thorin puts it on his deathbed:

“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”

Bilbo is effective precisely because he isn’t a traditional hero. He knows he can’t win in direct battle, so he must use his wits - and the fact that gold has little effect on him. He would prefer a warm bed, good food, and a few smoke rings to treasure and power.

In reading this to my kids, I was reminded of the charm that it held when I was first discovering the world of magic and imagination. I also remembered with fondness the evenings spent listening to my dad make worlds come alive for us.

Note on a book burning:

Most of us who grew up in the 1980s in conservative Christian homes remember the paranoia that swept through regarding a supposed conspiracy by toy makers and television to indoctrinate children into the occult. My mom was heavily influenced by two books in particular, The Hidden Dangers of the Rainbow, which alleged a new age conspiracy that would eventually take over the world. In addition to other rather dubious claims, it considered yoga to be the gateway drug into the occult. (Frank Peretti’s novel, Piercing the Darkness would dramatize these fears.) The other book was Turmoil in the Toy Box, by author Phil Phillips. (Not to be confused with the American Idol winner of the same name. Or the Nineteenth Century lawyer and congressman. Or the Irish archbishop, or the archeologist. Also, he does not appear to be a relative of Douglas or Howard Phillips.) This book purported to find the occult in everything from He-Man (arguable - assuming your kids know advanced symbolism) to the Care Bears and Mighty Mouse. (really?) The biggest bogeyman, however, was Dungeons and Dragons. I remember being paranoid about that. Not that I actually knew anyone geeky enough to play it at the time - that happened in Law School, and I discovered that most of what was said about it wasn’t actually true. Phillips would also write a book about the satanic dangers of Halloween. (This idea has had a huge influence on conservative Christianity.) Later, he would write books specifically warning of the dangers of Power Rangers and Barney. I should also mention televangelist, sensationalist, and “exorcist” Bob Larson here as well, who saw demons everywhere, and helped stir up the panic about toys and games. And about a satanist conspiracy.  (He also was part of the “rock music is satanic” movement of the 1980s - although he has since changed his mind. I imagine it was easier to sell the idea of hidden messages in Black Sabbath and Stryper than in Train and Brandon Heath.  I talked about the real origins of that movement here.) What was it about the 1980s and satanist conspiracy theories anyway? It’s not like any of us actually knew any real satanists. Did more than a few dozen exist? Our county (and others) had those now-reversed “molestation ring”  cases where kids were led psychological coercion to allege ludicrous satanic ritual abuse. Innocent people spent a decade or more in prison as a result of this panic...

Since I was never into modern television (except Mighty Mouse, apparently), and greatly preferred Legos and books to everything else toy related, this never really affected me in a negative way, at least personally. But I am sure I said some unkind things to kids who did play with these toys. To my knowledge, none of them ever got into the occult.

I would later find out that this paranoia extended far beyond cheesy kids’ television and stuffed bears with hearts on their tummies. For Bill Gothard, many objects contained malevolent powers - and the worst offender was Cabbage Patch dolls. They caused infertility. (I am not making this up.) And so, a purge of the household was necessary. (It occurs to me, after having had five children in seven years, that it would be cheaper and far less painful to put a cabbage patch doll under the bed than to get a vasectomy. Except that birth control was considered evil as well.)

This idea of destroying “evil” objects extended to books too. Books with magic in them were the equivalent of Simon the Sorcerer’s magic scrolls. So, at the peak of my family’s involvement, we burned our Tolkien books. I did not agree with this decision, and didn’t watch the whole thing. Since they were cheap paperbacks had seen better days, it wasn’t a huge loss.  I can tell you that books don’t burn very well by themselves, unless you take them apart page by page. Otherwise, they are pretty much the same as a log. For some reason, we spared our C. S. Lewis - although many others considered these occult as well.

Fortunately, this insanity passed, and we all went to see the Lord of the Rings movies in the theaters when the came out. I would say that, since that time, the more mainstream Christian groups have moved on to new issues (and new panics), while the most conservative elements - particularly in the home schooling movement - have broadened the forbidden list to include pretty much everything in culture more modern than the Victorian Era. And it even can get more restrictive than that.

My wife’s family never destroyed any books. (My wife didn’t read Tolkien until after I introduced her to him, although the rest of her family read them before the movies came out.) The group they were in, however, was extremely restrictive on reading material. (Many within Gothard’s group are this way as well, but not all.) For some of them, the only acceptable reading materials were the Bible and missionary biographies. Fiction was out, because it was “telling lies.” Because, you know, the story didn’t really happen. Particularly suspicious were magic and talking animals. Not only did it not happen, but it couldn’t happen in our world. Even those that allowed fiction tended to seek out books like Elsie Dinsmore, which portrayed their view of appropriate child behavior. Certainly no book could be allowed that had a child tell a lie or disobey! And the illustrations were not exempt from this paranoia either. If a girl’s skirt was too short (you know, like the actual clothes little girls wore when the book was written), they drew a longer one. Can’t have those knees showing.

It still amazes me that there are people - plenty of them - that cannot fathom that fantasy and magic, and indeed imagination - are vitally important a child’s development. And to an adult’s mental health. They really cannot believe that children can tell the difference between fantasy and reality. The use of the impossible, the fantastic, and the unfamiliar to illuminate the possible, the everyday is a crucial feature of imagination. We can see the issues more clearly when we remove the trappings of our particular situations. We don’t really think that a wizard and dwarves will invade our house and sweep us along on an adventure. We know that we will probably never have to fight off car-sized spiders. We won’t be literally looking for vulnerable spots on a real dragon. But that doesn’t mean that we learn nothing from The Hobbit. As G. K. Chesterton put it in Tremendous Trifles:

Fairy tales, then, are not responsible for producing in children fear, or any of the shapes of fear; fairy tales do not give the child the idea of the evil or the ugly; that is in the child already, because it is in the world already. Fairy tales do not give the child his first idea of bogey. What fairy tales give the child is his first clear idea of the possible defeat of bogey. The baby has known the dragon intimately ever since he had an imagination. What the fairy tale provides for him is a St. George to kill the dragon. Exactly what the fairy tale does is this: it accustoms him for a series of clear pictures to the idea that these limitless terrors had a limit, that these shapeless enemies have enemies in the knights of God, that there is something in the universe more mystical than darkness, and stronger than strong fear.

So for me, this era is a reminder of the power of cultural panic, which we still see today about food and medicine in addition to an ever-changing array of moral and spiritual “conspiracies.” It’s comforting to direct our natural fears of somehow ruining our children (which are difficult to raise!) into the avoidance of an outside malevolent influence. It’s easier and more comforting to believe that evil comes primarily (or entirely) from outside of ourselves. I doubt that anyone missed out on much by being denied the latest disposable plastic action figure, but the general idea of isolation from anything “outside” is damaging. When a child discovers that yoga is not, in fact, a gateway drug to the occult, and that the toys of his or her childhood were the result of a marketing conspiracy, rather than a demonic one, it does tend to lead to skepticism of other claims. And when good books are burned because of irrational fear, something in the soul dies. Fear becomes a barrier to the enjoyment of a great story, and future opportunities to learn and explore are circumscribed by the terror of contamination. And so, one retreats further and further into the bubble of “likemindedness” until everything in life becomes black and white - and very little of the white.

Reading With My Kids: The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making by Catherynne M. Valente

Source of Book: I purchased this since our local library didn’t see fit to carry it.

I am participating in an online book club, hosted by my friend Carrie, who has a popular book blog, Reading to Know.




This month’s selection was chosen by Bluerose’s Heart. I cannot find her review on her site, but it is reproduced at Reading to Know.

I hesitate to describe this book as a modern fairy tale, because that comes with certain assumptions that do not hold true for this book. A fairy tale it is, and one published just last year, which would make it “modern” in a sense. And really, it is in the tradition of fairy tales written in the modern era, rather than those passed down in oral tradition from time immemorial. And yet, it has a kinship with the ancients as well.

Like any good fairy story, it transports the reader to an imaginary land, populated with memorable and fantastic creatures. The protagonist, in this case, a twelve-year-old girl named September, must complete a quest, and learn about life and herself in the process. Like any book, the concept itself is only as good as its execution, and I thought the author did a fine job in balancing the elements of the story and the deeper truths she wished to convey.

My kids definitely loved the story, and reminded me to read it whenever we had time - and looked at me wistfully when we couldn’t. The older three in particular were able to appreciate the humor and general absurdity of the book, and understood things better than I expected.

In trying to find some more familiar works to use as comparisons, I decided that this book shares a certain kinship with Lewis Carroll, particularly in the use of the unexpected absurdity, the anthropomorphization of household objects, and the upending of fairy tale cliches. Similarly, I thought of Douglas Adams, who also was able to mix zany humor with a unsettlingly dark outlook. I would also draw the somewhat obvious connection to the Narnia tales (which are name checked in the book) and other “modern” fairy stories: Tolkien and MacDonald, for example, are also obliquely referenced throughout the narrative.

Fairy tales throughout history have not been intended only or even primarily for children. There is a certain edge to the yarns, whether old or new. A certain menace, and a darkness, and a feeling that life is often cruel and bitter. When someone says of another that he or she is living in fairyland, certainly the fairyland of stories is not in mind, as to absorb the lessons of the fairy stories is to have one’s imagination firmly planted in the danger and ugliness that is in life.

This book certainly goes to some dark places. There were a few times I caught my breath, and looked at the kids. The author pushes beyond the zone of comfort on several occasions, and lets injury and near death hit hard. There is no candy coating.

On the other hand, this may well be our modern fantasy of happiness speaking. We live a fairly charmed life, in which the vast majority of children reach adulthood, and we can pretty much count on our next meal and a hot shower the next morning. We think to shield our children from pain, sorrow, ugliness, but it is there, and they will experience it sooner or later. Books like this (and, let’s be honest, Lewis and Tolkien are plenty dark too) contain inconvenient truths about existence that are better faced than denied.

In that sense, the fairy story serves a certain purpose. It invites children to consider “adult” themes. By “adult” I do not mean smut (which is more the province of the immature) but ideas that require more than a simplistic solution. Dilemmas to which there is no perfect answer. Pain and sorrow that do not go away with a kiss. Hard choices. The sweet sorrow of saying goodby.

This is why the very best “children’s” books are engaging for adults as well. There is fun and adventure for the kids. There is also food for thought for those of all ages.

A few of the zingers that I liked:

“Is she [the Marquess] very terrible?”

The Green Wind frowned into his brambly beard. “All little girls are terrible,” he admitted finally, “but the Marquess, at least, has a very fine hat.” 

Ah, we fathers of daughters know this only too well.

All children are heartless. They have not yet grown a heart yet, which is why they can climb tall trees and say shocking things and leap so very high that grown-up hearts flutter in terror. Hearts weigh quite a lot. That is why it takes so long to grow one.

September ends up losing her heart (and her shadow and one shoe) in Fairyland - how and why is part of the fun.

I also found the scene where September is washed to be interesting. She has three things specially washed: her courage, her wishes, and her luck. This choice of the authors was interesting food for thought - and imaginative.

Like Bluerose, my kids thought the bicycle migration was hilarious. Particularly the food involved. (Tire jerky and axle grease whiskey?)

The philosophical high point for me was the scene where September meets her death. No, she doesn’t die, but she gets to meet her death, in person.

“Who are you?”

“I am death,” said the creature. “I thought that was obvious.”

“But you’re so small!”

“Only because you are so small. You are young and far away from your Death, September, so I seem as anything would seem if you saw it from a long way off - very small, very harmless. But I am always closer than I appear. As you grow, I shall grow with you, until at the end, I shall loom huge and dark over your bed, and you will shut your eyes so as not to see me.”

And later in the conversation:

“Death, I don’t know what to do.”

“It’s very brave of you to admit that. Most knightly folk I happen by bluster and force me to place chess with them. I don’t even like chess! … And it’s the wrong metaphor entirely. Death is not a checkmate...it is more like a carnival trick. You cannot win, no matter how you move your queen.”

Perhaps this is heavy stuff for kids, but my second born has been asking pointed questions about life and death since she was two. The author does better than most at facing the issue bluntly, starting a conversation rather than ignoring the implications. And too many of us like to think we would win that chess game, whether with cryogenics, health fads, or self delusion of whatever sort.

Finally, I was gratified to read another modern book that grants the possibility of a quest and an adventure, to a girl. Consistently, throughout history, there have been hero tales featuring boys. Occasionally, a girl or a woman will get a shot, but more often than not, they are the inspiration for the quest, content to sit at home and wait. This was nowhere more true than in the Victorian ideal, where the woman who failed to keep her place typically came to no good. Even now, far too many works of fiction (and most of popular culture) teach girls that their worth comes from their ability to get a man. That becomes the whole focus of existence. The girl gets her prince and that is the zenith of her life. From then on, adventure is a thing of the past, if it ever existed.

One hopes, at least, that the days of Elsie Dinsmore are over. C. S. Lewis in many ways threw that door wide open with Lucy as the brave and sensible one of the bunch. As the father of three daughters (and two sons), I wish for them to learn to be strong, to be active rather than passive, to take responsibility for themselves and their choices. As September noted, she hated a certain movie princess who had a high, breathy voice. I concur totally with this sentiment, I confess. Strength and competence are more attractive to me than a fainting “feminine” helplessness.

And really, if we are to be honest, life has the potential to be a quest, an adventure. Or it can be a frustrating and confining humdrum. The difference is in perspective and attitude. As this book reminds us, adventures are uncomfortable. They are downright unpleasant at times. They are exhausting, and sometimes we are desperate for a nap. (Can you tell I have kids?) But one must still get up, lick the wounds, make a ship if necessary, strap on our magic wrench like September, and fulfill our quest. 

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Update August 6, 2018: 

We revisited this book six years later in audiobook form. Since that time, my older kids have read several of the sequels, and continue to enjoy them. My youngest was too little to stay up to listen when we first read it. She enjoyed it, and does want to hear the rest. I myself enjoyed it the second time. There are so many witty lines, and the sneaky philosophy that characterizes many of the best modern children's books. I still love the way that the female protagonist is an active, adventuring character, not relegated to passivity. However, since we read this, we have enjoyed so very many books with these characteristics. I am happy to say that there has been a lot of change for the good over the past few decades, and interesting, thoughtful, and feminist literature is readily available.