I spent yesterday on my back porch rereading Anne of Green Gables by L.M. Montgomery. My Uncle Harry gave me my copy ages ago, and tucked between the pages was a note regarding my sister Laura visiting the school nurse in 1980, so I can assume I loaned her my copy then. I appreciate this evidence that I was a generous sister, and it’s nice to have a book with some history to it.
To be quite honest, I never thought the girl in the photo looked like the Anne I imagine. Her dress was all wrong, for one thing, and that’s before we even touch on the issue of puffed sleeves.
It made me happy, returning to an old favorite. Many of my friends grew up loving this story, and it makes for a special bond when I meet a new friend now and discover she also enjoyed it. In the spirit of Anne and Diana, “kindred spirits” becomes a code term for us readers who instantly and deeply relate to each other.
With her moods and imagination and earnest striving, Anne made perfect sense to me when I was twelve. She still does.