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It may be heresy to say it, but oh boy, am I disliking the Little House books these days.

OK, I still don’t mind reading The Long Winter, Little Town on the Prairie, and These Happy Golden Years. I like reading about Young Adult Laura’s adventures, and her romance with Almanzo.

But oh, the rest of them. Joy read Little House in the Big Woods and Little House on the Prairie last year, and the casual racism especially in the second horrified me (that’s what I get for letting her read a book I haven’t read myself in fifteen years or so); we promptly read other historical fiction that was more balanced in an attempt to not let that kind of racism become a part of her instinctive understanding of America’s history.

Now I’m reading Farmer Boy to her, and nearly putting both of us to sleep in the process. Here’s her write-up of today’s chapter:

“This was about how Almanzo went to church. Almanzo’s father drove the horses. They had a big and good dinner.”

And you know what? That’s pretty much all that happened in the entire chapter. Snore-fest.

I liked Farmer Boy when I was a kid, I suspect because we lived close-ish to Malone and my parents were part of the volunteer organization that helped get the Wilder homestead open to the public. Reading it now, as an adult, just for the story?

Ugh.

Give me the Betsy-Tacy books any day.

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