I reread Harriet the Spy and The Long Secret (which I didn’t properly appreciate as a young reader) in April, to write a pair of essays for the Literary Ladies site, hosted by Nava Atlas, author of (among other books) The Literary Ladies’ Guide to the Literary Life (2011). Follow the links from each title, if you’d like to read more about Louise Fitzhugh (and a little more about me, too). This time around, I took notes about different things (like the names of all 26 of Harrison Withers’ cats). Revisiting, rereading: a pleasure and an education.
Harriet was just the girl I needed to find when I discovered Louise Fitzhugh’s classic novel Harriet the Spy (1964).
Because I wasn’t enough of a tomboy to climb trees. (When I was old enough to have my first pair of high heels, I wore them with everything: my skinny-jeans with the zippers at the ankles and the turquoise fleece pants that I sewed in home economics class.)
But I was enough of a tomboy to climb a tree high enough to see over the fence to the house next door. (Not the house I lived in – which was a second-floor apartment, with a view of the house next door’s yard – but the house of an older family member.)
The residents of that house next door were older. Not as old as Mrs. Plumber (and not as wealthy either, which is why I did not have the option of squeezing into their dumb-waiter, like Harriet) but maybe as old as Mrs and Mr Robinson, and certainly they lived lives just as exciting as the Robinsons did (which is to say, not at all exciting).
The entries in my à-la-Harriet notebook revolved around when and how they crossed the distance between the house and the garage. (It looked like a proper house and the men in the family – their grown adult son lived there too – spent most of their time in the garage, only returning to the house for meals and the ‘facilities’. And there was a proper mystery attached, because although everyone called the building ‘the garage’, their two cars were parked outdoors in the driveway.)
They travelled between the buildings more often than you might think, but not often enough to make their movements very interesting either. So although I’m sure that initially I must have climbed that tree with only my notebook in my pocket, I spent far more time sitting in that tree with a book for reading rather than writing.
I was already in love with notebooks and spying before I met Harriet, but she made that okay. Even something worth writing about. (I loved stories about other girls with notebooks too: Anatasia Krupnik and I, Trissy, for instance.) So, notebooks were familiar territory. But Harriet took me to unfamiliar places too: her life unspooled in what Leonard S. Marcus called “one of the New York-iest of all children’s books” (in the tribute included with Delacorte Books’ 50th-anniversary edition of Harriet the Spy, the library copy pictured above).
She was quite likely the first literary character who whispered to me of the possibilities that city life could hold, in a good way.
Almost everyone I knew, in life and in books, viewed cities as necessary evils: places you went to because you had to, for education or employment, for touring musical shows or hospital procedures. In my experience, big cities were places you visited only because you were forced there for a spell. But Harriet loved her life in New York City: it was her home and there were plenty of other families calling it ‘home’ too.
The stories I read that unfolded on farmland and in rural areas, they reflected a world I felt I already knew. The majority of my young life in Ontario was spent in small cities, towns, and villages, so stories about families in small settlements with a single school and neither a theatre nor a hospital (from Carol Ryrie Brink’s Caddie Woodlawn to Maud Hart Lovelace’s Betsy, Tacy and Tib) were reflections for me. Harriet showed me another world, through a window rather than a mirror. And, even more importantly, she told me that someplace else was not only okay but desirable. That there was so much worth spying on that I hadn’t even imagined yet.
Thanks, Harriet.
For a while after reading Harriet the Spy, I took a notebook around with me in order to “spy” and write down whatever I discovered. It didn’t last too long, though, because there was never anything out of the ordinary going on! Just the same old thing everyday. I guess that’s where a city might come in handy.
I love both of your essays!
So nice of you to say! And I can easily imagine you with a notebook. But, yes, that’s it. Also, mostly people just stayed home. So you couldn’t even see people walking by and imagine what THEY might be up.
I’m not familiar with these, but it’s moving to read about the impact they had on you! The art design of each’s wonderful. I definitely can empathize with the feeling of growing up surrounded by people who demonized cities, and thinking about it, the books I read at school all portrayed the city as something to be escaped as well. Somehow, though, I grew to love them and can’t imagine settling anywhere else.
That’s kind of you to say, Michael. She did all her own illustrations, too! In her fourth book, a standalone published posthumously, there are illustrations of all the characters in advance of the story: line-drawings and names, that’s all, but it’s so interesting to think that these are proper novels, well over 300 pages long, but she conceived of her characters in every respect. And the POV’s cross, over her first three volumes, meshing with timeframe and shifting in voice with all characters appearing in all volumes, but not always at their hearts. Pretty clever for a kiddie writer, I’d say. (Having said all that, I can see where they wouldn’t have appeared in your reading landscape and would be tiresome now!)
Oh I love this post! I know what you mean about seeing big cities as scary or a negative thing in general. living outside of Toronto, we only went there for major medical appointments or to see a show. And the traffic made it a pain and hassle to drive to. (sigh) but now I love my life in Calgary and couldnt’ imagine living anywhere smaller 🙂
The world used to be so small, eh? laughs And I think a lot of people still have this perspective, this uncertainty, these fears: it’s funny, you’d think thinking would shift simply because, well, interweb and all. But I don’t think it has changed as much as I would have thought. Do people in Calgary know you’re a small-town girl, or have you kept it under wraps to protect your oh-so-sophisticated image? 🙂
haha once people meet me in person, they know I’m anything but sophisticated! it does surprise people though, that I grew up in the country, because I love living in a big city so much now. Although I do enjoy my visits home still!
I never read these books. I wonder why? I vaguely recollect the title. It may be that she appeared in Australia just as I was leaving that age group given I hit my teens in the mid 1960s. I love those covers.
As for notebooks, I used to love notebooks. I would love receiving them and love giving them away – but I would hate using them because I felt that the minute I used them I spoilt them. SO the pretty ones I saved, and I’d buy those ordinary cheap ones to use! The upshot of all this is that I now have a box of pretty notebooks of all shapes and sizes – and now I don’t use notebooks at all. I use the Notes app on my iPad and iPhone. They sync with each other and with my MacBook Pro, and they are already in electronic form if I want to use them in a blog post or document or letter. So, what do I do with all my pretty notebooks!! (Oh, and now I groan inwardly when someone gives me a pretty one!!)
I’ve found that children’s books that were published when I was in my teens, even when they were by authors whose books I loved when I was a kid, just didn’t register with me. Like somehow it would have interfered with my capacity to grow up, just looking in their direction or something! laughs
Aww, those poor notebooks. But I do understand that tendency. I finally started using the “pretty” ones a few years ago. It’s hard to believe that you have the right words for all those perfectly drawn lines and the fancy cut edges and the carefully aligned spines. The first word is the hardest!
Haha, Marcie … I can understand that. We’re very sensitive in our teens about being grown up, aren’t we?
And yes, the first word is the hardest. Love your description of beautiful notebooks with their perfectly drawn lines and fancy cut edges.
My youngest was a Harriet and loved the film version – could never get them to read the actual book! 😀
My step-daughters weren’t interested in the book either, but they do love notebooks (and their phones, of course, but still notebooks!). Harriet spends a lot of time in her own head: maybe she just can’t compete with the Warrior Cats and Percy Jackson and a thousand other plot-filled alternatives.