Little Heathens

I just finished this lovely book. I picked it up during the Christmas break to read something light as my grandkids danced around the Christmas tree and thundered throughout the house. Four of those grandkids live in Iowa and being tempted often to call them Little Heathens, I thought the title appropriate.

Actually, I found continual references to this book on the blogosphere as one of the best books in 2007. I listened as well to a podcast interview with the 80+ year old author, Mildred Armstrong Kalish, finding her stories fascinating and amazed that such a “elderly” author could craft such a well-written book. I was not disappointed, every chapter was a delight and made me jealous of a time in American where “hard times and high spirits” walked hand in hand.

Growing up on an Iowa farm during the depression, Mildred shares the stories and experiences of daily life. Here are just a couple excerpts from this very fun book:

On wart removal: Following Aunt Belles’ instructions, I peeled a medium sized potato, took it out into the middle of the dirt road that ran by the farmhouse, placed it on a flat stone that Melvin and I put there, and stomped the potato flat. Then we went back to the house and — this was considered crucial to the healing process — agreed not to look at the stone or to visit the site for two weeks. The theory was that as the potato on the stone disintegrated, the warts on Melvin’s hand would vanish. Every day we looked at Melvin’s hands. By the end of the first week the warts started to disappear. By the fourteenth day his hands were completely smooth.

In winter’s cold: My two brothers also shared a bed, and if the temperature was predicted to plunge toward zero, they declared it a one-dog night and were permitted to sleep with a dog; if the thermometer dropped below zero, then they declared it a two-dog night and enjoyed the pleasure of both Beans and Toby (the family dogs). . . .

Grandpa was particular about his tomato plants. He preferred the Abraham Lincoln, and every fall he mashed a carefully selected specimen onto a newspaper. As the mess dried in the sun, the seeds would stick as if glued to the newspaper, which Grandpa folded up and placed in a brown paper bag. There the newspaper remained until spring rolled around and it was time to plant the seeds. In our family, the Abraham Lincoln remains the taste criterion for tomatoes to this day.

Mildred on book tour: