Images and text by Carter.
The Little House by Virginia Lee Burton is one of those sigh-worthy books, right? It’s a classic that might be wedged into that little-house-shaped hole in your heart, too, just like it is in mine. (And Gabrielle’s — it’s a favorite at the Blair house!) I remember reading it as a little girl, and it seemed so fancy and old-fashioned at the time. And now, many years later, my view of fancy and old-fashioned has transformed into an awe of its timelessness.
This Little House is just a tiny thing, painted pink, and sheltering love. She sits on a hill in the countryside watching the seasons rise and set with the sun, watching the kids wander and wonder, and wondering herself what city life is like. Slowly but surely, the Little House watches surveyors with steam shovels and buildings rise to the sky, blocking her view of the stars. She hasn’t moved an inch, but the Little House is wholly homesick. But her legacy is of love, and when she’s plucked from the city and replanted in the countryside, I become a bit of a blubbering mess.
Her story reminds me of the things that make home warm despite the passage of time. It makes me think of the white paint chipping away at the columns of my grandparents’ porch, and how spinning around them made me forget about the biting mosquitoes out there. How about you?