One of my children’s favourite books when they were little was Leo Lionni’s “Frederick”. It was one of my favourites, too. The illustrations – simple bright collages—were evocative and the theme was haunting. The narrative of “Frederick” is straightforward—a variation of the old story of the little red hen who worked diligently to grow, tend, harvest and make bread from her wheat while her feckless companions frolicked in the sunshine. When her companions want to share in the bread she’s baked, good little Calvinist that she is, the little red hen refuses to share with those who played and daydreamed while she worked.
Frederick, the mouse, is a daydreamer, too. While the other members of his mouse family spend their days carrying grain into the grey cave that will be their winter home, Frederick lies in the grass, absorbed in the mystery of flowers, butterflies, birds and clouds.
His grain-collecting family grows impatient with him, but when winter comes and the food supply in the cave dwindles, it turns out that Frederick has been collecting too. When he shares his memories of summer’s colours and scents and sounds with his family, they understand that feeding the soul’s need for beauty is as important as feeding the body.
“Frederick” is a powerful metaphor for the place of memory and imagination in our lives. For years, I read it to my first year students in our last class. When my husband, Ted, was teaching prisoners in Prince Albert Penitentiary, he read them the story of “Frederick”. Many of them wept. Perhaps more than most of us, they understood that when life becomes a grey cave the only way to survive is through remembering times of colour and beauty.