The Stories We Tell

We did it, my friends. We finished reading the entire Little House on the Prairie series. We’ve read some of the books more than once with multiple kids, but as a group, my oldest three and I, have made it through the entire series from the first words of the Big Woods to the final words of The First Four Years.

We actually should have finished the series two days ago, but my oldest wouldn’t let me. She was sad at the thought of it being over, so she wanted to make it last a little longer.

I obliged.

This really is a bittersweet moment for me. Clearly we aren’t done with the Ingalls family. We are only halfway through the television series, and when I realized how close we were to finishing the book series, I bought one of two books of letters written by Wilder. I have plenty of vicarious pioneer living ahead of me.

The sadness of having finished something that we worked on, off and on, for multiple years (we read many books in between) is sweet though as I realize that these memories are now imprinted into the fabric of our family.

After all, much of what creates sustained bonds over decades are the stories about ourselves that we share. And us reading this series is as much a part of our family lore as family dinners and vacations have been.

We like reading. We are book people. When we want to spend quality time together, it almost invariably involves a book. Even when we are in the car, we are often listening to an audiobook.

It’s just what we do as a family.

But even for the least literary families among us, those family bonds are solidified by something. It could be sports or travel or music or running. Our family lives, the stuff that weaves the fabric that supports the big endeavors, are invariably built by innumerable small acts performed repeatedly without end.

The first time I read a Little House book to a child of mine was in my bed in my old house with my eldest. So today as I finished our joint read with my oldest three, we all huddled in my bed and read the last 15 pages. I almost cried as I turned the final page. Then we dove into a discussion about the best and worst of the series.

I know I’ll be here again. After all, my three year old has only read through the picture book adaptations with me thus far. I hope when it’s her time to start through the series that her big sisters will join me and live these moments with her, cementing her in the fabric of this shared family experience.

Our first go round of the Laura Ingalls Wilder story is finished, but the story it has written into our lives will live on until hopefully one day my daughters will each get cozy on a recliner with a daughter of their own and start anew these beloved stories.

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