(2008)
“I am a loner”. This idea has been lurking in the dark cellars
of my mind ever since I can remember. It has made friends with “I’m not
pretty”, “everyone hates me”, and “I’m never getting married” (although that
last one has recently been completely and gloriously obliterated). Growing up,
it seemed like every time I made a “friend”, they would eventually tell me I
wasn’t popular enough for the plans they had for their future, non-loner,
wonderful lives. They had big, big plans. I guess that was my problem. I never
planned that I wouldn’t be a loner. So I read. I read a lot. And books became
my friends. Consequently, I believe this lack of plans has led to my absolute
happiness.
Recently, the day marking five years since my Dad passed away
came and went. No one called. No one texted. No one commented on my status on
Facebook (because apparently that counts as having felt love now). I told Brian
I was sad that I don’t have one girlfriend that, when thinking about a big
moment in one of our lives, would call me. No one thinks of me as the person that would
be there for whatever they need –just to talk. I read a book about my friend
that day, and I felt transported to a place where someone listened, and wanted
to comfort and encourage me.
I remember being happy
every time I heard another one of my brothers was getting married. I was always
excited to have another sister join the ranks of my sisterly-estrogen-lacking
life. But those sisters already had sisters…real
sisters. They had what I sometimes found myself lacking. Enter: my deep
dark loner secret. Even my secret had friends. So, I found a wonderful sister
and best friend in my Mom, and I read.
(Orchard House, 2008)
Then truth breaks in, with all of her matter-of-factness:
I actually do have friends (writers like to contradict
themselves). Another fact: I am also a historian, and all of these friends I’m
referring to are dead. This brings me back to the birthday girl.
Louisa May Alcott was born in a home full of love and hope and
transcendentalist change. Her mother was a humble woman with a temper and an
enormous capacity for love. Her father, although confidently referring to himself as “the
Savior” on multiple occasions, was a man of deep thought and desire for purity.
People viewed both of her parents as exactly what they were. They shunned
Bronson, and in so doing, left Abigail lonely and all but forgotten. Louisa had her mother’s dark complexion and chestnut
hair, and Bronson believed these features were signs of the devil. His fair
skin and hair the color of lemons were, according to Bronson, what made up the character of the Gods.
The family was close to destitute until Louisa finally gained the praise of her father by writing the only book that the uneducated attribute to her name. Little Women was a success from the start, and little women everywhere have quickly made it a part of their growing up experiences. Timeless describes her well. Most of her life was spent depressed and torn between the life she was told to live and the life she wanted to live. She suffered greatly, and she rejoiced superbly. She dedicated herself to the well-being of her family, and was the epitome of selflessness in all she did.
(Orchard House, 2008)
The family was close to destitute until Louisa finally gained the praise of her father by writing the only book that the uneducated attribute to her name. Little Women was a success from the start, and little women everywhere have quickly made it a part of their growing up experiences. Timeless describes her well. Most of her life was spent depressed and torn between the life she was told to live and the life she wanted to live. She suffered greatly, and she rejoiced superbly. She dedicated herself to the well-being of her family, and was the epitome of selflessness in all she did.
Over the past year, I have come to know this woman a little
better than the first time I picked up Little
Women, just because it was one of those books I wanted to have said I
finished. Now, it has become so much more. Louisa is real to me. She is my
friend, and has filled a void that no one else could. She is not just a
character in history, or a name everybody “knows”.
You might think I’m crazy (especially those of you who know of
my fascination with my other dead friends). But this is me. My friends are
deeper than the spoken word. They are deeper than “friends” on facebook or “followers”
on instagram. They are stories and music and feeling and reactions and mistakes
and emotion. They are love and discovery and finding out who I really am.
Happy birthday to one of the best girlfriends a girl could ask
for. See you on the other side.
