"Marmee" Was Their Mom

It was there in the pile. I was grateful. There we were in Reading Class & a pile of books strewn about the counter at the back of the classroom. We'd be in the class less than a week. Our next assignment: to select a book from The Pile & present its summary to the rest of the [quite small] class in X number of days.

This book, with which I'd been all too familiar, having read it many times before this, though never as an assignment anywhere, was available to select. Louisa May Alcott's name fell in many places during my pre-teen & adolescent years. Her writing seemed so delicate & read like a smooth welcoming embrace. I think I also felt connected to her in that she wrote in solace in the family's attic, away from everyone & all distractions & disturbances; the same way I found that I sorted through my thoughts best.

She had sisters. Many of them. I had none. Though I longed for at least one. And she wrote of them. This made reading her writing all the more "hearted" & full of a gentle, soft, spirited love.

For this Reading Class I did re-read the book. It's quite a comfort to curl up on one's bed & open a book's binding knowing it's a great read, one that you look forward to, & to know it's also for a class assignment. 😁 When it was time to present the book's summary I remember highlighting the beauty of the book's beginning & its end. As most of the students encompassing this Reading Class were those with which I'd grown up, they didn't hold back snickering & funny remarks. Case in point, I recall one male student quipping, "What's in the middle?", to which I found myself smiling...Mostly because I knew, with absolute confidence, that I could, indeed, easily reminisce, [read: explain] of this book's entirety to my classmates.

The movie based on the book is another which isn't accurate to the storyline & therefore leaves me with a frown 😕 [well, a confused one, that is] & shaking my head unable to follow. It's the relationship she had with her father & how little time there was between their deaths that's left me in awe. I wrote about it here.

I never did read other works of Alcott's, not even this book or this book, two which are subsequent to this...Almost as if I became "full" simply by just reading this. (Though reading more of Alcott's work is on my "someday" list. 😏)




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