Louisa May Alcott was born on November 29, 1832 in Germantown, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. When we arrive at this day every year, I think of her life and works, and grow nostalgic. It’s difficult not to revisit a childhood filled with books when we pause to remember one of the iconic authors I read.
But, this year… It’s different, better, even more memorable.
Why, you no doubt ask?
Because there’s a Google Doodle to celebrate the day (of course)! And, it’s trending on Twitter, which likely means that one of my childhood heroines has now made it. She’s a big-time name, even! We’re all chatting about her, remembering Little Women, perhaps even recollecting her other contributions to life, literature and academia.
If we’re lucky, her name will be more than just a blip in social-media spheres. I can’t (won’t) be the only one to remember her. You all will too, won’t you?
I want to think back to the books my grandmother gave me. They were old, aged-brown pages, and the bindings had been reinforced. And, it was via those much beloved library-castoff volumes that I devoured the tale of Jo and her sisters. I cried as they lost, and I laughed at those haphazard antics. I wished that I could step into the pages, and become a part of that bookish family, that I could be a part of their plays and a part of that imaginary world.
Of course, none of that is possible. We all grow up. We learn that books are just that, a solitary place, where we can fancy freely. And, then, we go on with life.
I wonder if the Google Doodle and the Trending Twitter and even the fact that we’re talking about Louisa May Alcott today will ultimately mean something.
