“NO!”
Most people, at least most girls and women, of a certain age grew up with the stories Laura Ingalls Wilder wrote about her childhood on the frontier of Wisconsin, Minnesota, South Dakota, and—briefly—Kansas. We read these stories over and over, absorbing every detail: what it was like to live in a log cabin or a dugout on a creek bank, how the shiver went down a child’s spine when she heard a wolf howl or Indians chant, the way the family got through hard times, the music Pa played on his fiddle and sang as they rode out a long, hard winter.
