My parents were strong believers in reading to their children. Every evening, one of them – usually Dad – would read to us.
Little House on the Prairie. The Chronicles of Narnia. White Fang. The Call of the Wild. Where the Red Fern Grows. Never Cry Wolf. Lost in the Barrens. Black Beauty.
This is the original book, the one my Dad read out loud to us. I would love it even if it wasn’t, but because it is, I treasure it all the more. It’s actually one of five books that I refuse to sell or get rid of (no matter how many times I move or find myself broke).
To me, Tisha is a classic.
It fueled every dream I had about teaching out west, perhaps not Alaska, but definitely South Dakota or Montana appealed to me for years.
This is the true story of Anne Hobbs, called Tisha by one of her students, who traveled from Colorado to teach in Alaska in 1927. She lands in a town called Chicken where at first everyone is warm and friendly, but as she involves herself more and more with a small Indian boy named Chuck and a kind-hearted half-Eskimo named Fred, she experiences coldness, deeper than the frigidness of the arctic winds.
Inspiring and sentimental, this is a love story and an adventure. I don’t believe it is a mistake the the back inside flap has these words:
“Not since Benedict and Nancy Freedman’s best selling novel, Mrs. Mike, has the story of a young woman in the untamed north been told so well. Tisha is a tale filled with warmth and love, with violence and sudden death, with prejudice, struggle, bravery and triumph.”