Just after it flipped to the B-side, Amy would crash through the ice of Walden Pond and let out a scream so shrill we’d grin at one another with goosebumps on our arms even after we’d heard it a couple hundred times. Along with yearly viewings of the 1949 Katharine Hepburn film version, we had a record and a read-along book for kids. At other times, my oldest sister played blind Mary Ingalls and tapped around the room with a stick my middle sister claimed the heroine, Laura and I’d be stuck as useless Carrie toting around a Cabbage Patch Kid with the even worse fate of playing baby Grace.īut I found odd glory when we imagined ourselves as Little Women’s March sisters.
Then I’d lie on the floor for the rest of the production, an afghan draped over my still body to indicate my death. We’d put the Les Misérables original-cast soundtrack on my parents’ ancient record player, and I’d glide, impassioned, across our dining room - until Fantine dies of a combination of exposure, tuberculosis, and shame. The Little Women character has served as our national totem of spoiled little turds for 151 years, as if we didn’t all yearn to be her.Īs the youngest of three girls, I rarely landed the choicest parts when my two sisters and I staged our favorite dramas.
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