From Pillar to Post

Having moved several times in the last few years, I well understand Ma’s dismay in These Happy Golden Years when Pa starts talking about wanting to go West again. “I was so tired of being dragged from pillar to post, and I thought we were settled here,” she says in Chapter 16.

But I have very good reason to put my foot down now and refuse to ever move again. You see, every time I move, it seems I have a “Little House” mishap.

First it was the china shepherdess.

“She had traveled from the Big Woods all the way to Indian Territory, and all the way to Plum Creek in Minnesota, and there she stood smiling. She was not broken. She was not nicked nor even scratched. She was the same little shepherdess, smiling the same smile.” On the Banks of Plum Creek, Chapter 17.

Mine didn’t even cross state lines but I’m afraid I can’t say the same. Look at that nick in her bonnet!!

But it’s okay. After all, I have two other shepherdesses, and they’re in perfect condition.

On the next move, I took extra precautions. I wrapped my “Little House” things up as well as I could, and announced that those boxes were not going on the moving truck. I would move them myself.

But someone else helping with the move decided he’d “do me a favor” and bring along some of the boxes in his car. And every single thing we moved arrived safe and sound… except my Haviland china (which I have because it’s the same china Laura owned), some of which was shattered into bits. Just how this occurred I have yet to find out, but it’s okay too. Because I’ve since realized that Haviland wasn’t a perfect match to Laura’s anyway.

Quite recently, I moved cross-state once more, and this time there was no way anything was happening to my “Little House” collection. Everything was wrapped and double-wrapped, protected, and handled by me alone. Trouble is, I had to put most of my things into storage for a short time while waiting for my new house to become available. So I carefully marked the boxes containing all precious items, and stressed the importance of caution concerning those boxes to my father who was assisting with the move.

The day I arrived at the new house with the moving truck, I discovered my father there hauling in the last of my items from storage. He looked at me, took a deep breath, and said, “There’s been a little accident.”

“An accident?” I questioned. “What do you mean?”

“I’m just sick about it!” he declared, which wasn’t exactly what I wanted to hear. “It was with your antique books.”

A knot formed in my stomach as I awaited further information. “The box flew off the back of the truck, the lid popped off, and they scattered onto the street,” he continued. Then he gulped. “And some lady ran over some of them with her car. She helped me pick them up… I think we found them all, but I’m afraid some of them got pretty beat up.”

What are the chances, I ask you?  For strapped down boxes to fly out of the truckbed in the first place, and then to be run over by a car?  And of all the boxes he moved, it had to be THAT box? It couldn’t have been bedding, or towels, or clothes. (At least it wasn’t dishes!)  No. It had to be Little House things.

He took me in to survey the damage. I have to admit, I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw it. Pa’s big green animal book had lost its front cover, and Mother, Home and Heaven (a gift to Laura from Almanzo) had a large crease down its front and several torn pages, but everything else was unharmed. I was so relieved. My dad was still quite upset about it, being an antique collector himself and knowing how he’d feel if it were his treasures, but I kept assuring him all was well. Those two books aren’t at all difficult to replace, and besides, my big green animal book was brown and I’d been wanting to buy a green one anyway. This gave me the perfect excuse!

You see, after hearing the words “accident” and “antique books” paired together, the only thing on my mind was the autographed-by-Laura copy of These Happy Golden Years I had so reluctantly placed in that tub, only because there was no safer place to put it.  It had been snugly sandwiched in the bottom and hadn’t even left the tub. It was safe, and that’s all I cared about.

But I’m sure you will understand now when I tell you I have no intention of ever moving again.  It’s just too big of a risk. My “Little House” collection must be protected at all costs.