Walk Two Moons

“Most of the time, my mother seemed nothing like her parents at all, and it was hard for me to imagine that she had come from them. But occasionally, in small, unexpected moments, the corners of my mother’s mouth would turn down and she’d say, ‘Really? Is that so?’ And sound exactly like a Pickford.” 

Because her death predates the novel’s events, Sugar remains one of the novel’s more enigmatic characters. However, Sal’s account of her mother’s relationship to her identity as a “Pickford Hiddle” provides some insight into both her hopes and fears. Sugar rejects the cautious reserve of her birth family, choosing instead to embrace the more open, spontaneous, and optimistic lifestyle of the Hiddle family. Nevertheless, as Sal here notes, Sugar had an underlying tendency toward her parents’ more guarded ways of thinking and acting. As the novel progresses, Creech reveals that this tendency troubled Sugar, who wanted to be as naturally affectionate as her husband. It also perhaps helps explain why she struggled to move past the loss of her second child, and thus to explain her eventual decision to leave her family.  

“In [Phoebe’s] world, no one was ordinary. People were either perfect—like her father—or, more often, they were lunatics or axe murderers. She could convince me of just about anything—especially about Margaret Cadaver. […] Somehow it was easier to deal with Margaret if there were reasons not to like her, and I definitely did not want to like her.” 

The above passage is key to Creech’s characterization of both Phoebe and Sal. First, it highlights Phoebe’s tendency toward melodrama, which is partly a byproduct of her anxious personality; Phoebe is constantly imagining worst-case scenarios, even if those scenarios are extremely unlikely (e.g. encountering an axe murderer). Meanwhile, the fact that Sal is levelheaded enough to recognize Phoebe’s ideas as fantastical, but nevertheless allows Phoebe to “persuade” her of them is an early indication that Sal is in a state of denial about something involving Mrs. Cadaver. Sal needs fabricated “reasons” to dislike Margaret, because without the excuse they provide, she might be forced to confront the real reason for her resentment: the fact that Mrs. Cadaver is a living reminder of the death of Sal’s mother. Finally, it’s worth noting that while Sal explicitly states that Phoebe idolizes her father, she has little to say about Phoebe’s relationship to her mother. The Winterbottoms don’t seem to appreciate the role Mrs. Winterbottom plays in the family until she leaves, and while this isn’t the motivation for her departure, it’s related to her broader frustration with her status as a model wife and mother.

“The woman called a mechanic, and once Gramps was satisfied that the mechanic was an honest man who might actually be able to repair her car, we started on our trip again.” 

The episode at the Ohio rest stop says a great deal about Gramps as a character. When he sees a “damsel in some distress” (26)—a woman with a stalled car—Gramps is eager to help, despite knowing nothing about cars himself. In his enthusiasm, he makes the problem much worse by pulling out the “snakes” (i.e. pipes and hoses) underneath the car’s hood (26). Nevertheless, his refusal to leave until he’s sure the woman will be safe speaks to the fundamental goodness of his intentions.

“I said to myself, ‘Salamanca Tree Hiddle, you can be happy without her.’ It seemed a mean thought and I was sorry for it, but it felt true.” 

Sal’s realization that she can “be happy” without her mother is significant for a couple of reasons. First, it reflects Creech’s depiction of happiness as in large part a matter of choice rather than circumstances; even in the wake of her mother’s death, Sal discovers she can find ways to be happy. Second, the full context of the passage makes it clear that Sal is learning not only to be happy without her mother, but also to be her own person. Prior to this point, Sal has defined her feelings in relation to her mother’s; thus, in the immediate aftermath of her mother’s departure, she “find[s] [her]self looking around for her, to see what [she] might want to feel” (37). Sal’s increased awareness of her own thoughts and feelings is an indication that she’s growing up, and beginning to consider herself outside the parameters of her relationship to her parents. At the same time, her sense that this realization is a “mean” one speaks to the fact that the coming-of-age process is an inherently bittersweet one in the novel; even children who don’t literally lose a parent in the way that Sal does lose their former relationship to their parents as they mature.

“On the way to Phoebe’s house Ben said some odd things. First, he said, ‘Maybe you shouldn’t call him a lunatic.’” 

Ben’s remark here foreshadows the later revelation that his mother is currently institutionalized in a psychiatric hospital; as a result of his personal connection to someone with a mental illness, Ben is sensitive to the girls’ use of the dehumanizing term “lunatic.” In this way, the passage also serves as a reminder of the importance of empathy, because someone who has given serious thought to what it would be like to be mentally ill likely wouldn’t use the language Sal and Phoebe do here.

“Everybody is just walking along concerned with his own problems, his own life, his own worries. And we’re all expecting other people to tune into our own agenda. ‘Look at my worry. Worry with me. Step into my life. Care about my problems. Care about me.’” 

One of the central lessons Sal learns over the course of the novel involves the importance of empathy; in fact, the title itself is a reference to the importance of trying to inhabit another person’s world—or “walk two moons in their moccasins”—before passing judgment on them. Gram’s words here approach the problem from a slightly different angle, suggesting that people are so caught up inside their own worldviews that they expect everyone around them to empathize with them, while failing to extend the same courtesy to others. Notably, the statement that Gram is responding to (“Everyone has his own agenda”) is one of the messages Mrs. Partridge leaves on the Winterbottoms’ doorstep. These letters are one of the many examples of language or storytelling serving as a vehicle for empathy in the novel.   

“I was wishing we had never stopped at the river, and that my grandparents would be more cautious, maybe even a little more like Phoebe, who saw danger everywhere.” 

As this passage suggests, the Winterbottoms and the Hiddles embody two very different attitudes toward life. Where the Hiddles are so eager to embrace every opportunity that comes their way that they sometimes act in ways that seem reckless, Phoebe and the rest of the Winterbottoms are so aware of potential dangers that it impedes their ability to take pleasure in life. At this point in the narrative, Sal is still coming to terms with her mother’s sudden death, which has made her hyperaware of everything that can go wrong in life. When a boy (Tom Fleet) approaches the family with a knife, Sal is therefore inclined to view her grandparents’ actions as foolish. Ultimately, however, Sal comes to believe that her grandparents’ perspective is the correct one, and that it isn’t so much a denial of danger as it is a determination to live fully even in the face of life’s pains.  

“At that moment, it was as if a switch went off in Mrs. Winterbottom’s brain. She put her hand to her mouth and stared out the window. She was invisible to Prudence and Phoebe, though. They did not notice.” 

Mrs. Winterbottom’s actions in this passage are a response to the question Phoebe (quoting one of Mrs. Partridge’s messages) poses to her sister when Prudence is worrying about cheerleading tryouts: “[I]n the course of a lifetime, what does it matter?” (102). In addition to signaling the moment when Mrs. Winterbottom decides to leave, the passage touches on several of the novel’s themes. For one, she seems to arrive at this decision based on her sense that she isn’t fully living her life; in fact, she’s previously suggested that she feels she lives a “tiny life” defined largely by concerns for propriety (86). In reconnecting with the child she had before marrying, and in beginning to explore a more fun-loving side of herself, Mrs. Winterbottom chooses a richer and more satisfying existence for herself. It’s also noteworthy that her daughters remain oblivious to her feelings in this passage. This speaks in part to the family’s tendency to overlook Mrs. Winterbottom specifically, but also to the broader ways in which emotional closeness can sometimes impede characters’ ability to grasp a situation; Sal, who isn’t personally invested in the dynamics of the family, can see Mrs. Winterbottom’s frustration clearly in a way that those closer to her can’t.

“My father was the only son left, but even if their other sons were still alive, my father might still be their light because he is also a kind, honest, simple, and good man.” 

The above passage helps the reader better understand not only John Hiddle, but also Gram and Gramps. Up until this chapter, Gram and Gramps’ behavior might lead one to believe they’re simply ignorant of the risks they’re taking. However, the revelation that Gram and Gramps have outlived three of their four children makes this interpretation unlikely; rather, it suggests that their knowledge of life’s unpredictability and sadness makes them all the more determined to embrace each moment, even if that means acting in ways that prove risky. Meanwhile, Sal’s description of her father as a straightforwardly “good” man serves to contrast him with Sal’s mother. Although Sugar is also warmhearted and kind, she must consciously choose the generosity that comes naturally to her husband. She’s also less “simple” than John in the sense that her own warmth exists alongside underlying feelings of sadness and self-doubt.

“I need to do it on my own […] I can’t think. All I see here is what I am not. I am not brave. I am not good. And I wish someone would call me by my real name. My name isn’t Sugar. It’s Chanhassen.” 

Sugar’s rationale for traveling to Idaho reflects the novel’s ideas about the relationship between the self and others. Creech depicts interpersonal relationships as a vital aspect of life, not only because they’re a source of love and happiness, but also because it’s often through their connections to others that people come to understand and define themselves. In some cases, however, the complexity of the feelings involved in a relationship can cloud a character’s ability to perceive either themselves or those around them clearly; here, for instance, Sugar feels so inadequate in the face of her husband’s “bravery” and “goodness” that she loses all sense of her own identity. Her remark that she can only see “what she’s not” is likely also a reference to her troubled relationship to her identity as a mother; Creech implies that Sugar’s loss of both a pregnancy and her fertility has dramatically impacted her understanding of who she is. For all these reasons, she decides she needs to isolate herself from the relationships that have previously grounded her sense of self in order to discover or create a different identity. The fact that she insists on being called “Chanhassen” is especially significant in this respect, because it’s a name that only Sugar’s own mother has ever used—that is, it’s a name and identity that’s largely free of any external associations or assumptions.

“I was uneasy because everything that happened at Phoebe’s that morning reminded me of when my mother left. For weeks, my father and I fumbled around like ducks in a fit. Nothing was where it was supposed to be. The house took on a life of its own, hatching piles of dishes and laundry and newspapers and dust.” 

The chaos of the first morning after Mrs. Winterbottom’s disappearance reveals just how much her family had relied on her largely unacknowledged role in the house: Phoebe oversleeps, Prudence can’t find the clothing she wants, and no one has prepared breakfast. Likewise, Sal says, her own mother’s absence resulted in a pileup of household work: dishes, laundry, dusting, etc. In addition to underscoring the parallels between Phoebe’s story and Sal’s, the above passage is therefore a reminder of the amount of work women have traditionally done for their families, as well as a reminder that that work is often unappreciated. 

“When my mother did not return, I imagined all sorts of things. Maybe she had cancer and didn’t want to tell us and was hiding in Idaho. Maybe she got knocked on the head and had amnesia and was wandering around Lewiston, not knowing who she really was, or thinking she was someone else. My father said, ‘She does not have cancer, Sal. She does not have amnesia. Those are fishes in the air.’” 

The outlandish theories Sal comes up with in the wake of her mother’s death are an example of the complex role storytelling plays in human life. On the face of it, Sal’s “fishing in the air” seems simply like a denial of reality, and it certainly serves to obscure the truth in the short term. Ultimately, however, the stories she tells herself actually help her come to terms with reality by allowing her to emotionally adjust to her mother’s absence before confronting its finality; the scenarios she imagines—cancer, amnesia, etc.—are ones in which it’s theoretically possible that her mother could return. In this way, Sal uses storytelling as a bridge to full acceptance of her loss. In context, the passage also illustrates the way in which Sal’s experiences give her insight into what Phoebe’s behavior after Mrs. Winterbottom’s disappearance; although Sal realizes it’s unlikely Phoebe’s mother was kidnapped, she recognizes that Phoebe needs to believe this and that trying to persuade her otherwise would do no good. 

“It went on and on like that. I hated her that day. I didn’t care how upset she was about her mother, I really hated her, and I wanted her to leave. I wondered if this was how my father felt when I threw all those temper tantrums. Maybe he hated me for a while.” 

Sal’s account of her response to Phoebe’s endless worrying and complaining is significant for a couple of reasons. For one, it illustrates her growing ability to imagine other people’s perspectives; Sal’s frustration with Phoebe becomes a possible window into how her father felt when Sal “threw tantrums” in the aftermath of her mother’s death (108). The passage is also a reminder that, as Mr. Birkway puts it, “even though someone might be our best friend, he or she could still drive us crazy” (196). In this way, it underscores a key point the novel makes about the relationship between the self and others. As important as interpersonal relationship are, people inevitably have needs and wants that those around them can’t satisfy.

“Zeus decided to give man a present, since man seemed lonely down there on Earth, with only the animals to keep him company. So Zeus made a sweet and beautiful woman, and then Zeus invited all the gods to dinner. It was a very civilized dinner, with matching plates.” 

Phoebe’s retelling of the Pandora myth serves as a humorous reminder of the ways in which people may read their own preoccupations into the stories they encounter, often in ways that obscure a story’s more relevant or significant themes. Because she’s still annoyed with the Finneys for failing to cater to her demands during her dinner at their house, Phoebe uses her oral report on Pandora as an opportunity to implicitly criticize their “uncivilized” habits. The retelling is therefore as much “about” the storyteller as it is anything else; in this case, Phoebe’s interpretation of the myth highlights her anxious attempts to reassert familiar routines in the wake of her mother’s disappearance.

“When I told this part to Gram and Gramps, Gramps said, ‘You mean it had nothing to do with Peeby?’ They looked at each other. They didn’t say anything, but there was something in that look that suggested I had just said something important. For the first time, it occurred to me that maybe my mother’s leaving had nothing whatsoever to do with me. It was separate and apart. We couldn’t own our mothers.” 

The above passage is a good example of how telling Phoebe’s story helps Sal better understand her own life—in this case, by helping her empathize with her own mother. Just prior to this passage, Sal explains that in the aftermath of Mrs. Winterbottom’s disappearance, she found herself wanting to reassure Phoebe that she wasn’t responsible for her mother’s departure (or, implicitly, for bringing her back); Mrs. Winterbottom might have chosen to leave for reasons that had nothing to do with her daughter. Saying this aloud and seeing how her grandparents respond to it in turn causes Sal to realize that her own feelings of guilt and responsibility are similarly misguided. Sugar didn’t leave because Sal was “drawing away” from her (64), or because she viewed her daughter as deficient in some other way; rather, she left to work through feelings that were “separate and apart.” The realization that parents have lives and needs beyond their children is bittersweet but also liberating, as it allows Sal to stop blaming herself for what happened to her mother.

“Ben said, ‘Maybe dying could be normal and terrible.’” 

One marker of Sal’s growth over the course of the novel is the change that takes place not only in her attitude toward her mother’s death, but also toward mortality in general. The above passage takes place during a class discussion of Longfellow’s poem “The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls,” which Sal finds extremely distressing: “It isn’t normal to die. It isn’t normal. It’s terrible” (175). However, in the same way that Sal ultimately comes to accept her mother’s death, she’ll also come to understand death in the way that Ben outlines here: as a tragic but natural part of life.

“In spite of all her wild tales and her cholesterol-madness and her annoying comments, there was something about Phoebe that was like a magnet. I was drawn to her. I was pretty sure that underneath all that odd behavior was someone who was frightened. And, in a strange way, she was like another version of me—she acted out the way I sometimes felt.” 

As Sal highlights in this passage, Phoebe’s function in the novel is in part to serve as a foil. Her often prissy and nervous behavior contrasts with Sal’s more easygoing demeanor, but also masks the girls’ underlying similarities; Phoebe’s “wild tales” about kidnappings and murders are simply an exaggerated form of the denial and anxiety Sal experiences in the wake of her mother’s death. The fact that Sal views Phoebe as a kind of foil is a testament to the fact that, in the novel, characters make sense of their own experiences in ways that are bound up in language and storytelling—in this case, by learning about themselves via another person’s story.  

“Isn’t it interesting to discover that snowy woods could be death and beauty and even, I suppose, sex? Wow! Literature!” 

Mr. Birkway’s words in this passage follow a student’s confession (via her journal) that she “hate[s] English where teachers only talk about idiot symbols” (205). In response, Mr. Birkway shows his students a famous ambiguous figure the brain can interpret either as a vase or as two people facing one another in profile. This, he says, is similar to the way in which literature works: Stories (and symbols in particular) aren’t so much a one-to-one code that needs to be cracked as they are a kind of language that can simultaneously mean multiple things to multiple people. The above passage therefore encapsulates the novel’s depiction of storytelling as an active process in which people find or create meanings that are relevant to their own lives. It also captures Mr. Birkway’s enthusiasm not only for literature, but for life in general. 

“And then our heads moved slowly backward and we stared out across the lawn, and I felt like the newly born horse who knows nothing but feels everything.” 

Sal’s reference to the E. E. Cummings poem she first encountered in Mr. Birkway’s class is one of several examples of the novel’s characters using literature to understand their own lives—in this case, her first kiss with Ben. As Sal’s first romantic experience, the kiss ushers her into a new phase of life, which is likely why she thinks of it in terms of birth; like a newborn, Sal is overwhelmed by a flood of unfamiliar feelings and sensations. The timing of Sal and Ben’s kiss is also significant, in that it occurs just after Sal finds him visiting his mother in a psychiatric hospital. This suggests that the two bond in part over their shared experience of “losing” a mother.

“She was talking about being respectable and how maybe Mr. Winterbottom would never forgive her, but she was tired of being so respectable. She had tried very, very hard all these years to be perfect, but she had to admit she was quite unperfect.” 

When Mr. Winterbottom asks his newly returned wife to explain where she’s been and who Mike is to her, her response sums up much of what has been troubling her throughout the novel. To live up to (what she takes to be) her husband’s standards of “respectability,” Mrs. Winterbottom has been inhabiting a role that she finds dishonest and unnatural. Most obviously, she believes that having had a child out of wedlock—something traditionally considered unacceptable for a woman—disqualifies her from being the dutiful housewife she’s strived to be throughout her marriage. What’s especially noteworthy, however, is the fact that Mrs. Winterbottom implies she can’t be respectable and has no desire to be. Given how she behaves around Mike (dressing more stylishly, kissing her son freely, etc.) it seems likely that Mrs. Winterbottom has been suppressing an entire side of her personality while around the rest other family—specifically, a side that’s less matronly, more playful, and in some cases (e.g. spitting) even “unfeminine.”

“On the tombstone, beneath her name and the dates of her birth and death, was an engraving of a maple tree, and it was only then, when I saw the stone and her name—Chanhassen ‘Sugar’ Pickford Hiddle—and the engraving of the tree, that I knew, by myself and for myself, that she was not coming back.” 

Although Sal has by this point visited the site of the bus crash, it’s only when she reaches the cemetery itself that she confirms to readers that her mother is dead. This is because, as Sal says here, she didn’t fully believe in her mother’s death until the moment she arrives at Sugar’s grave. It’s particularly noteworthy that Sal describes the “engraving of the tree” as one of the things that finally persuades her of the reality of what has happened; maple trees are deeply intertwined with Sugar’s identity—her name itself is a reference to them—so the sight of the engraving brings home to Sal the fact that it truly is her mother buried there.

“The birdsong came from the top of the willow and I did not want to look too closely, because I wanted it to be the tree that was singing.” 

Sal’s admission that she doesn’t “look too closely” at the tree near her mother’s grave gets to the heart of the novel’s ideas about happiness. Sal wants to believe that it isn’t a bird but rather the tree itself—and thus, perhaps, her mother’s spirit—that’s singing, and so she chooses to operate on this assumption. Unlike Sal’s earlier denial of her mother’s death, Sal isn’t simply ignoring a painful reality, but rather acknowledging it (or at least its possibility) and then choosing to focus on what instead brings her comfort and happiness.

“‘This ain’t—’ he said. ‘This ain’t—’

‘It’s okay,’ I said. I sat down on the other side of the bed and held his hand. ‘This ain’t your marriage bed.’

About five minutes later, Gramps cleared his throat and said, ‘But it will have to do.’” 

The words Gramps says before going to bed each night take on new significance in the wake of Gram’s death; whereas the phrase previously implied that Gram’s presence made their temporary bed acceptable, it now signals Gramps’ determination to make the best of an inherently painful reality. This is in line with the novel’s broader ideas about the nature of life and happiness, and it’s a mark of Sal’s growth over the course of the novel that she now recognizes what Gramps is trying to do and helps him do it.