A quaint, soft-cover book had been sitting around at home for years, in one of Mom’s Mexican rustic bookcases. Back in my twenties, she bought me a batch of English classics to read up. She saw me consume the dainty hardcovers from her Jane Austen collection. Brontë’s Jane Eyre found me a new heroine in the convenient pocket paperback. The yellowish pages from mom’s Wuthering Heights copy revealed the kind of obscure romance I could get hooked on, and dwell on its effects for days.
Still, it was a bit difficult for my young self to read these works, as it was an older English than the one I was used to. Also, it wasn’t my habit to halt my reading long enough to dig into the dictionary, learn new words, and above all, retain them.
But I never got to My Antonia, life just threw things my way, and I got caught up and entangled in her net.
I married, got my own place, had three daughters. The gift kept to itself, stowed in a sturdy cardboard box after one of our many moves. My Antonia stayed put, together with Tess of the D’Urbervilles, Saki’s collection of works, and Jude the Obscure. Somehow not gathering too much dust, loyal to the classic sheen of friendly paperbacks.
But how naughty life is. She decided it was My Antonia’s turn, rain or shine. It was for the best, I needed a healthy break from my phone. Checking on social media kept reminding me of my precarious financial situation at that time. Acquaintances flaunted their trips abroad on Facebook, and then reposted on Instagram. They strode along beaches, ate amazing foods, looked great at family get togethers, and were just so happy.
Nothing was there for me, for sure.
When my youngest began college, we had to drive 30 miles each morning to another district. Gas wasn’t cheap. My backside didn’t take kindly to hours of sitting in the car either. So I decided to wait for her on campus, saw no point in driving back home. I took out My Antonia from her station in the card board box and set myself up to read all about her. I unfolded the seat of our cherry red hatchback, propped up my loins on a couple of old pillows from the linen closet. My morning coffee was hot and ready in a thermos. I took a swig between bites of the breakfast cookies I packed that morning.
I read like my young days, when I had no real commitments. Willa Carter’s book went back and forth between districts, Monday to Friday. I built a little routine of breakfast while reading. Took a walk. Back to the car. Read some more. Took a nap. Another small walk, while pondering on the wonderful story of Antonia Shimerdas’ untamed spirit.
The realistic storytelling, tidy descriptions, the earnest portrayal of the native natural surroundings didn’t need additions. All was perfect, no Facebook. Those days were for Antonia, Jim, and their part in the building of a nation. Carved out of its earth, begun at the dugouts, moved upward with ambition, sacrifice, and spirit. I wept when, towards the end, after many years, Jim went back to the countryside to visit Antonia. I worried one of them might die before that day, but bodies weren’t frail like that; they could take quite a bit of the harsh wilderness of the agrarian country before giving in to pain and disease.
Jim reencountered an even more beautiful woman on that last visit. Abundant in children, she’d borne the fruits of her incessant hunger for life. A love of the land, the physicality of work, and the memories of her father’s own hardship had cultivated her soul. Naturally proud of what she had built, she seemed to know that her mission had been fulfilled. Antonia tamed Nebraska’s wildness in her heart.
Her sturdy spirit spoke to me, amidst incoming chat messages I cared little for, and commutes. Those were silly nuances under the rugged will that shaped Antonia’s body. She lost almost all of her teeth to pregnancy, but her eyes shone as always, even in the haggard face of struggle. They celebrated under her garden pagoda, talking as all of Antonia´s children played around. It was victory, the climb out of scarcity, a life lived to the very last drop.