THE PETERKIN PAPERS, WAS FIRST published in 1886. My own copy, snagged from my parents’ library when they were divesting themselves of family detritus, is a third edition, published in 1928. It was for my brother and me one of those books which were always there, not for reading but for being read to, even long after we needed aid, simply for the pleasure of our mother’s voice. Even now, sixty years later as I skim its pages, I hear my mother’s voice, expressive, amused, anticipating the familiar and satisfying conclusion of each chapter.
The Peterkins are a family made up of an enterprising father, overanxious mother, one daughter, Elizabeth Eliza, and a variety of sons, including “the little boys in their India rubber boots” always rushing off to help solve a family problem. The problems are simple: Mother has put salt instead of sugar in her coffee; Elizabeth Eliza’s new piano is delivered and placed with its back facing out into the living room; the horse refuses to move. But the solutions are as complicated as all the suggestions anyone in the family can offer. For the coffee, first the chemist is sought. When he fails, the herb lady is called in. When she fails, the little boys set out once again to what is always the family’s choice of last resort, the Lady from Philadelphia, a frequent visitor to the town, who offers the solution, “Make another cup of coffee.” Elizabeth Eliza spends the summer playing her piano by sitting on the porch and reaching the keyboard through the window, but as winter comes on, she and the family are getting colder and colder. Consulted, the Lady from Philadelphia suggests turning the piano around. With her opera glasses from her own window, the Lady from Philadelphia can see that the much cajoled and abused horse needs to be untied from the hitching post.
The Peterkins seemed to me not so much feckless as amateur, adults and children alike, as attractive in their eager resourcefulness as they were silly. Though it was easy to feel superior to them, it was reassuring to know that other families made mistakes, got into trouble, and finally solved their problems with a little kindly help. It was the Lady from Philadelphia, however, who was the book’s main attraction. Unlike our own grandparental advisors, who gave orders rather than offering advice, who never waited to be asked, the Lady from Philadelphia was a patient oracle who only responded to requests and never mocked or scolded, simply solved the problem. Though I couldn’t have put it into words at the time, she was also American without title, without magical powers or the immortal weight of myth. She was my first role model. Though I’ve said for years we only need bad ones to teach us what not to be when we grow up (scolding, criticizing, interfering grandparents), I know as I sit in my chair reading or at my desk writing, I have half an ear cocked for the sound of India rubber boots on the path, the knock at the door, and I hope that my advice is as simple, useful, and kindly as the advice of the Lady from Philadelphia.