When museum-wandering, I flitter to-and-fro. From exhibit to exhibit I quickly go, like a bumble bee trying to get loose. But then, I’ve never been to a museum showcasing Dr. Seuss. Next year, that could shift—for in Springfield, Mass. they’re working swift. He was born there, you see, the doctor who taught little you and little me.
What we’ll see when we visit this museum (now being created) is a topic likely still being debated. And though I know you did not yet ask, I’ve a list of things with which the construction teams to task. The Cat in the Hat I’ll not mention, for we all know his inclusion is not under contention. Saving only him, and his things one and two, here’s everything I hope the Seuss museum does do:
1: Once I set foot in the place I’d like to know about all the places I’ll go. A map would do the trick. It’d sort me out quick. Maybe instead I’d rather a book, one that tells me what’s there but not quite where to look. The museum could be like Seuss’ mind, a place where meaning (and not just exhibits) is what you might find.
2: Maybe the place won’t all be inside, but instead will have outdoor space where could hide (whether under a bush or in a nook) the two ever-escalating combatants from the Butter Battle Book. At the very least, I’d like to find the little boy whose grandpa couldn’t leave butter-bred hatred behind.
3: What if there were instated, a garden (either grown or created) made entirely of Seussian pink clover. That way we could help Horton hear the Whos over and over. With careful ears and a cautious pace, we could eventually ease the weary look on that kind elephant’s face.
4: No museum that welcomes the young is complete without a place where costumes are slung. What if the attire were modeled after the tail of Gertrude McFuzz, whose tale was cautionary of ever one was. Maybe the flashiest pieces could be weighted, so that our need for “biggest” and “best” could be someday eliminated.
5: Speaking of how people are seen, I do hope there’s a copy of McBean’s Star-On Machine. Rather than charging for stars (both on and off), they should be priced at 100 percent off. If the stars are free, how easy it would be to see that there’s no real difference between “they” and “we.”
6: Oobleck is green and has a tendency to stick. For a hands-on exhibit, it’d be real slick. I’m not quite sure how it could cut today’s rulers down to size, and for that oversight I do apologize.
7: While some may say that a gift shop selling of thneeds is a must, those aren’t the sort of folks I like to trust. To satisfy our Lorax-related gifting needs, I say they instead hand out packets of seeds. The label on these I bet you already did guess: Unless.
8: While hiding wockets in our pockets is a step beyond, there’s a related idea of which I’m fond: the whole place should be crawling with waskets in baskets and ghairs beneath chairs. Wosets are a shoe-in for the closets and I demand there be Yeps on the steps.
9: Yertle the Turtle must have himself a pond. Though of his sort of ruling I am not fond, the lesson his fall teaches is grand. I say we create a turtle tower game, off hand. Incidentally, I think John Lithgow agrees. If you’ve not heard him tell the tale, click these.
10: This last suggestion you may have seen coming. It’s a snack that for which our collective tummies are thrumming. Served by waiters all named Sam, we should definitely be served green eggs and ham.
Oh wait… in that last picture there’s a fox. He’s sitting in a box. My perfect list of ten his presence shocks. He’s not alone for Seuss wrote books in flocks. But please don’t throw me in the stocks, but in the comments lend these omissions your vox.