Rootabaga Stories
Carl Sandburg, illustrated by Maud & Miska Petersham
Once, when I was young and restless, I bought a magic train ticket that let me go anywhere I wanted for a whole month. I started in San Francisco, where my Hawaiian cousin, a student at Berkeley, gave me my first copy of the Rootabaga Stories. I read the book on the train. It begins as I was beginning, with a magic train ticket. I read myself to sleep, curled up on a train seat. I slept with the book under my head. It crept into my being.
I fell in love with the prose and the illustrations.
Time passed: I had a daughter. I don't know that I ever read her the whole book. I treated it like a book shelf full of story books. Some stories we read over and over, others we dipped into just once.
Our favorite way to read it was on the front porch on a warm summer evening, with the cicada chorus playing in the background. Sometimes she sat in my skirt, using it to swing between my knees. We also read it in the winter, in Decembers, curled up on her bed.
When my local library had an exhibit of "Literary Art" I made a Map of the Rootabaga Country. I deconstructed the map into an “advent calendar,” in which anything can happen.
And in this crazy life, so much does.
|