“Each time these kids are successful with food, it’s like they’ve recreated a little bit of the adult world in their outside world,” she explained.
“In the real world, most children have food handed to them. But in children’s books, harvesting and maintaining and fixing, or scavenging or buying, one’s own food is an act of independence. So figuring out that the butter needs to go in the stream is like solving a puzzle; it’s an act of adult invention. Whereas little kids would let their butter spoil, big kids can figure out how to make a house out of an old boxcar.”
A woman of an older generation, the retired English professor Barbara Traister, 80, read “The Boxcar Children” growing up. She, too, remembers the food. “It’s such an essential thing for kids,” she told me from her home in Philadelphia. “‘What are we going to eat today?’ ‘Mom, can I have a snack?’ Children’s writers — good ones — pick up on that. Think of Winnie the Pooh. He’s always worried about his honey, and Piglet is always looking for his acorns.”
By the end of “The Boxcar Children” — the first book, that is — Henry, Jessie, Violet and Benny have been reunited (or, perhaps more accurately, united) with their grandfather, who turns out to be kind rather than cruel. They’ve made a new home in the wealthy man’s mansion, where each child has a room of his or her own in which to sleep and Jessie has a big kitchen in which to cook.
Yet the children miss their old boxcar.
Soon enough, to their pleasant surprise, their beloved former home has been secretly trucked in to live out its days on their grandfather’s sprawling property.
“Everything was in place,” Warner writes. “Here was Benny’s pink cup, and here was his bed. Here was the old knife which had cut butter and bread, and vegetables, and firewood, and string, and here were the letters for Benny’s primer. Here was the big kettle and the tablecloth. And hanging on a nearby tree was the old dinner bell. Benny rang the bell over and over again, and Watch rolled on the floor and barked himself hoarse.”
