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, and 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 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.
Her name will be more than just a blip in social-media spheres if we’re lucky. 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, via those much-beloved library castoff volumes, I devoured the tale of Jo and her sisters. I cried as they lost, and I laughed at those haphazard antics. I wished I could step into the pages, become a part of that bookish family, and be a part of their plays and that imaginary world.
Of course, none of that is possible. We all grow up. We learn that books are a solitary place where we can fancy freely. And, then, we go on with life.
I wonder if the Google Doodle, the Trending Twitter, and even the fact that we’re talking about Louisa May Alcott today will ultimately mean something.