When I was a child, the picture book The Little House by Virginia Lee Burton was one of my very favorite stories. Have you read it? In it, the little house sits on a beautiful hill way out in the country, with farm fields and orchards on the rolling hills nearby. By that description, it seems that I grew up and moved to the Little House from the story, though my house is not painted pink.
In the story, perhaps you remember, the Little House is curious about the far off city (a curiosity I sometimes share!) Well, as time goes by (with urban sprawl and that sort of thing) the city encompasses the little house, shutting off the sight of the moon and the changing seasons. The author tells us that the Little House did not know whether she liked living in the city. “She missed the field of daisies and the apple trees dancing in the moonlight.”
Spoiler alert (*grin*)
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Ultimately, the descendant of some former resident of the Little House sees the house in the city and recognizes it, despite a desperate state of disrepair. In perfect storybook fashion, the problem is simply and neatly solved. The Little House is moved out of the city, to a gentle hill in the quiet countryside. “Finally they saw a little hill in the middle of a field… and apple trees growing around.”
A blissful scene closes the story:
“The stars winkled above her… A new moon was coming up… It was Spring… and all was quiet and peaceful in the country.”
Did I love this story as a child because the appreciation for this simple country life already existed in me, as an intrinsic facet of my nature? Or did the story I so loved influence me subtly, infusing my choices with story-book magic, stirring within me this peaceful appreciation of the seasons and the beauty of our earth.