my huckleberry friend

And so we come to what is, for me at least, the highlight of this trip: The Mark Twain House & Museum in Hartford, Connecticut. Odd that this would be so high on the list, having visited what most people would agree are much more exciting sites. But for me this is very, very exciting. My fiance is just along for the ride.

Mark Twain has long been my favorite author. I freely admit that when I was much younger (10-early teens), I latched onto this curmudgeonly Missourian because I thought it made me seem smarter. More mature. My friends could read all the Goosebumps and Sweet Valley High they wanted; I was a true literary connoisseur.

A funny thing happened during these years. The more Twain I read (and reread), the more I genuinely liked his work. My appreciation of his novels, short stories, and essays grew as my knowledge of history, politics, and literature grew. I advanced beyond Tom Sawyer, reading A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, Innocents Abroad, and the classic Huckleberry Finn. I reveled in his wit and wisdom, loving how he seemed to have a quote for every situation. I dreamed of traveling the world, and maybe even writing about my journeys, as he did.

But the thing I began to admire the most about Twain (and when my family reads this I'm sure a lightbulb will go off in their heads) is that he wasn't shy about sharing his opinions. He shared his thoughts on what he firmly believed was right and wrong in this world, and didn't seem to give a damn if someone disagreed with him. His works shined a light on the human condition, illuminating the hypocrisy and injustice that is so often ignored. And he did this so well, that even now his works ring true. (Which is sad when you think about it, only because that means the world hasn't changed much in the past 100 years.)

Visiting the home where Mark Twain wrote his most influential work was for me a sort of pilgrimage. A chance to peer into the private life of a personal hero. To see where he worked, where he told stories to his children, where he slept-- at the foot of the bed, so he could admire the intricate carving on the headboard.