It’s enjoyable to reread classic pieces of literature once every few years to garner a deeper understanding of the work.  But it’s not always a Brothers Karamazov kind of day.  So sometimes I like to go back to the childhood classics.  And by revisiting once beloved texts with a different set of sensibilities, we can decide for ourselves if the things we loved as kids have held up.

Last December, I spent a few days in the feminine utopia of Little Women. This year, I tried Little House on the Prairie, the 1935 children’s book about a pioneer family’s westward expedition.  I remembered the elemental aspects of Ma and Pa’s wisdom, a covered wagon, and cornmeal mush, all of which all seemed very reassuring after several long months of working in a brightly lit office cubicle.

I made it through the first fifty pages before I was drop dead bored.

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