I read the book when I was 13 and loved it. But it kicked my ass, no denying it. Three lifetimes later I still remember the story perfectly, and have never read it again. I’ll won’t watch the movie simply because the book told the story perfectly.
Wilson Rawls came to the school where my dad taught back in about ‘74. He tells about how Mr. Rawls was extremely uncomfortable speaking to the school, and how he struggled to autograph books with the assistance of his wife who wrote customers names on a paper for him to copy into each book. Apparently his life’s story was extremely powerful. He grew up very uneducated, and very poor. He originally wrote all of his books on opened grocery bags. When he met the woman who later became his wife who was very well educated, he was so ashamed of his low level of literacy that he burned up a box full of rolled up “books.” Only after they’d been married for a few years did he confess to what he’d done. His wife encouraged and helped him rewrite his stories from memory and get them to print. Other stories are lost forever.
While I never met Mr. Rawls, I have personally autograph copies of Red Fern and Summer of the Monkeys. They live A protected life in a barrister bookcase, and are two items I’d try to save if I smelled smoke.
