The wonder of Wonderland: magical children's books

Apparently a lot of people have this horrible cold, which feels like Covid or bronchitis. Phooey. 

Just writing, first, to gloat about Fox firing Tucker Carlson, one of the vilest human beings on the planet. I wonder if it's coincidental that 60 Minutes on Sunday night did a segment about Ray Epps, a Trump supporter who protested peacefully at the Capital on Jan. 6 and for some reason, of all the thousands there, was targeted by Carlson, who made up a theory that Epps was an FBI plant and shrieked about it over and over on his program. Epps received so many death threats that he had to sell his ranch; he and his wife are in hiding, living in a trailer. He said Carlson destroyed his life. The next day, TC was fired. 

Anything for ratings, eh, Tucker? Rile up the beast, the base, plant insane theories, watch the clicks roll in. Best of all, his rants about Canada, the godless authoritarian state, its people under the thumb of socialist tyranny. 

May he rot. 

On the other hand, last night's huge treat: Wonderland, on TVO, a series about the "golden age" of children's literature, delving into the work and lives of British authors from that time, starting with Lewis Carroll, A.A. Milne, and Arthur Ransome of Swallows and Amazons. In subsequent weeks, my own favourite Frances Hodgson Burnett, Beatrix Potter, E. Nesbit, J.M. Barrie, Tolkein, Kenneth Graham of The Wind in the Willows, and more. 

The premise of the show is that almost all the famous books were written for a specific child or children, with the authors exploring or expiating their own often unhappy childhoods by inventing an idealized world of escape, a Wonderland, a Neverland. The saddest story is A.A. Milne's, whose son Christopher Robin was infuriated by what he felt was his father's expropriation of his childhood and his toys and refused to see him for years.

Made me rush upstairs to the section of my bookshelf for the books from my childhood.

So much deliciousness. There's a whole section for Anne Frank. 

A 1954 edition given by my British grandparents when I was seven

"Ootook, Eskimo Girl" was sent by my father in 1958 from Halifax (Hillavax Novascocha) to England, where my mother, brother, and I were living. I guess he was preparing me for my return to the cold of Canada. I was seven. At the bottom, my homemade library card. 

My mother's book from 1935, awarded as a prize. Beautiful Joe is a dog who's treated cruelly; my mother couldn't even mention this book without crying.

Mum was thirteen.

This one makes me laugh - what my father thought a nine-year-old would enjoy for her birthday. I've never read it. 

Judy Blume is having a moment. I'm sorry I was too old for her books, as I would have benefitted from learning what she was telling. 

The magical books of childhood stay with us forever. I hope the children of today, including my own grandsons who are not big readers, have their own wonderlands, their own private worlds, to have and to hold.