Looking back I can see that my desire to take pilgrimages started very young. Every year my family would take a big vacation, usually heading west or north from Tennessee. Of course it was the 1970’s which meant you drove, no matter what the distance was. My father would plan stops along the way to art museums, parks and historic sights. Two different summers we went to see the homes of my favorite childhood author Laura Ingalls Wilder. We went to DeSmitt, South Dakota to the little museum and house reproduction. We went to Mansfield, Missouri to the home where Laura wrote all her books. Neither of these places were impressive or popular but they meant everything to me, I LOVED the Little House books and read them constantly.

When I was very young my father would read out loud Little House in the Big Woods, then we progress through the whole series. When I could read them on my own I read all eight books every year for eight years. I also loved to read other books like Heidi, and Anne of Green Gables but my heart belonged to Laura. I loved these stories of gentle heroines living simple lives and their love of nature.

The Little House books were almost a way of life for my family. We knew all the stories and continued to read them aloud on Friday nights by a roaring fire. I would pretend I was living back in time like Laura. I wanted a rag doll, a tin cup and my hair in braids. I still desire a very simple life close to nature.

When I was 21 I badly broke an arm and had to have surgery. My parents drove through the night to be with me. Too sick to do anything my father sat by my bed and read me “Laura”, the words spoken by his voice were so comforting to me when I was in so much pain.

This winter my father was dying, he couldn’t go home so he stayed on with me and we enjoyed a constant flow of family and friends, bouquets of flowers and roaring fires. My sister came to visit bringing her well loved copy of Little Town on the Prairie, a gift from my parents in 1968. The copy was threadbare from love. So we sat by the fire doing the most cherished act of our childhood, reading Laura. These stories so beautifully written, brought comfort to all of us. My sister, mother and aunt read many an hour when my father was too sick to do anything else.

These books are my family’s sacred texts, the language and descriptions of a beautiful time in American history. But more than that they are stories of courage, love, gentleness, hard work, fortitude and cooperation, all the things my family holds dear. These are the sacred stories of our land and our people.

As my family walked beside my father to the edge of life, we cherished our moments together and our shared history of his 92 years. Early in the morning on March 15th we waved good by and wished him well on his next journey. He is greatly missed.