I’ll admit that dates (as in 1492, not as in dinner and a movie) leave me cold, and treaties (if they’re not of the chocolate variety) make me run screaming in the opposite direction.  But history is more than dates and treaties.  History is people. 

     Teenagers in 1492 probably didn’t care so much about what Columbus was up to as they did about their spots.  Girls in ancient Rome were positive that they were too fat, too thin, too tall or too short for that hunky gladiator to notice.  And the thrills of being a young woman in medieval times with all those cute knights belting around the countryside on their horses!  Or was that knight so adorable once he lifted his visor, opened his mouth and presented a view of blackened, rotting teeth?  Not to mention the body odour when he took off his armour.  All things considered, maybe Griselda was better off with the pleasant peasant who helped her winnow her grain. 

     For me, the excitement in history is how people lived.  What was Ruth’s house like in Christ’s Jerusalem?  What did she do for fun?  Or Lizzie, in plague-torn London watching her family die one by one of that hideous pestilence—how did she cope with the cry from the street outside:  “Bring out your dead, ” knowing that it was her beloved brother who was next for the mass grave?  In The Secret Shelter, what did Sophie and Marina talk about during the sleepless hours huddled in their tiny Anderson shelter, listening to bombs whistling earthward?  Probably the same things girls talk about today—clothes, boys, and what they would do on Friday night—German bombers permitting, of course.

     Historical fiction allows us to enter the minds and hearts of people—ordinary and extraordinary—who lived in times which, for us, are the stuff of fantasy.  We can move into a moated castle, a wilderness cabin, or a Roman villa.  We can fight wars, fall in love with a French duke, or ride bareback across the Canadian prairies—and still be home in time for dinner.

     Time travel is possible.  You don’t need a futuristic time machine, merely a comfortable chair and a good book.  Centuries—no, millennia—are yours to explore.  Enjoy!