(As promised, here is another installment from my proposed book, What Did I Tell You? This is the first six pages of Chapter One. Thank you for reading and please consider subscribing to the website if you have not already done so. Future posts will automatically be delivered to your email. Feel free to share.)
We read books to find out who we are. What other people, real or imaginary, do and think and feel…is an essential guide to our understanding of what we ourselves are and may become. ~Ursula K. LeGuin
Reading, like breathing, is an ability I have no recollection of acquiring. I know I had to have learned to recognize that first word, just as I had to have taken that first breath, but I have no memory of it. I simply cannot remember not knowing how to read.
Breathing and reading are life giving. Life without the former is impossible. Life without the latter is unimaginable. The ability to read is like possessing an extra sense. While the five basic senses allow me to experience the immediate world directly, reading allows me to experience the rest of the world vicariously. With reading as a superpower, all the wisdom of the ages is accessible to me, restricted only by the scope of my curiosity and comprehension.
Books have played such a vital role in my life, it is virtually impossible to imagine becoming me without them. Although owning books was a rare luxury in our single-income family, reading was considered an absolute necessity. Being read to, by my parents and older sister, is one of my earliest and fondest memories. Some childhood gems still sit on the shelf with dog-eared pages, their covers worn thin and soft from use.
Books, and obviously their authors, filled the gaps in my education and experience. They exposed me to the realm beyond my immediate reality, allowing me to gain a perspective that would otherwise have been unattainable. Through books I spent time with people I would never meet, in places I would never visit, imagining things I would never experience. All that I read became a part of me.
The library was my favorite room in school and my favorite building in town. From this literary station, I could travel anywhere in the universe. Books were my ticket to explore life beyond the confines of my rural existence. Mrs. Abner, our librarian, helped navigate the Dewey Decimal System to destinations of interest. Arms loaded with the maximum number of volumes permitted, I relished signing my name on the card below all those travelers who preceded me on the journey (oftentimes my older sister). Finally, I awaited the satisfying thwack of the conductor’s stamp on my selections signifying the adventure was about to begin.
One of the most influential figures in my reading life was my third grade teacher, Miss Oliver. The mere mention of her name evokes memories from that momentous year to come rushing back. Along with the traditional academic milestones typical of the 60s – reciting multiplication tables, mastering cursive writing, composing personal and business letters – there were the teaching practices unique to Miss Oliver.
Unlike other teachers, she interacted with us on the playground during recess. Sometimes she would even participate in our games by rolling the kickball or turning the jump rope, making sure no one was left out. She nurtured our creativity by incorporating art into our daily reading lessons. After completing a story, we were asked to draw a picture of our favorite character or scene. But the most notable practice, the one that left a lasting impression on me personally, was her reading aloud to us every day after lunch. Miss Oliver didn’t merely say the words, she breathed life into the story.
Although she managed to complete several chapter books over the course of that year, the title that sticks out in my mind, The Boxcar Children, was destined to become an all-time favorite. The prospect of taking up residence in an old, abandoned boxcar, keeping butter cold in a stream, and picking bouquets of wildflowers to put in a cast-off jar as a centerpiece on a makeshift table was spellbinding. Miss Oliver fueled our imaginations as well as our intellects. In her eyes, we weren’t merely students; we were children in whose future she was personally invested.
As mentioned previously, I have no memory of not knowing how to read. But Miss Oliver took the reader I was and transformed me into a full-fledged bibliophile. She introduced an entirely different point of view regarding books. They were not just meant to be read, they were intended to be experienced. Within their pages were characters to be admired, even emulated, as well as those whose example should be avoided; choices that produced desirable consequences while others resulted in disaster; adventures that promoted personal growth whereas others ended in self destruction; and lessons as relevant and informative to me as to those about whom the book was written. She did not regard textbooks as the ultimate source of worthwhile information. Literature was an equally valuable wellspring of wisdom from which we could benefit.
Like Kathleen Kelly in “You’ve Got Mail”, Miss Oliver was of the mind that, “When you read a book as a child, it becomes a part of your identity in a way that no other reading in your whole life does.” So reading was not just a means of finding out about others, but a means of finding out about myself, as well as discovering the kind of person I wanted to become. Through literature, as truth was revealed in others, it was also revealed in myself. Whether a work of fact or fiction, the character being shaped was mine.
Not surprisingly, the literary voices to which I was especially drawn echoed those of my mother and father. A diverse collection of writers, both classic and contemporary, composed volumes teeming with prose that reiterated the precepts advocated by my parents. Inhabiting their pages were protagonists who exemplified the personal qualities to which I was encouraged to aspire. Because of the values my parents espoused and modeled, those literary voices did not fall on deaf ears.
So unbeknownst to my parents, their child-rearing efforts were assisted by a cadre of distinguished authors. With Charles Dickens I traversed the streets of London from orphanages, workhouses, and debtor’s prisons to English countryside estates. Along the way, it became abundantly clear that kindness is not exclusive to those with material wealth and brutality is not limited to those without. One is never too old to seek redemption, nor too young to grant mercy.
M. Montgomery took me to the picturesque land and seascapes of Prince Edward Island where I discovered that family is not defined by blood alone, the bonds of friendship can be every bit as binding as family ties, and friendship lays a solid foundation upon which to build a marriage. Frances Hodgson Burnett demonstrated that what is planted and nurtured is what will grow. Seeds of fear and cruelty are likely to yield disdain, whereas seeds of empathy and kindness tend to yield goodwill.
Travels with John Steinbeck took me from the Midwest to the West Coast depicting along the way the suffering caused by selfishness and greed, as well as the palliative properties of generosity and compassion. His keen observations of social conditions combined with his gentle sense of humor made it clear that the smallest good deed is greater than the grandest intention.
Louisa May Alcott showed me that girls can be every bit as active, intelligent, and competent as boys, and males can be just as thoughtful, caring, and nurturing as females. Madeleine L’Engle encouraged me to create and adopt a personal philosophy of life, grounded in spirituality, to serve as a guide toward achieving a fullness of being. The merit of such a creed being entirely dependent upon the extent to which it is actually put into practice. In other words, ideals and beliefs are worthless if they don’t translate into action.
Despite the differences in historical time periods, geography, background, experience, and writing style, represented by the authors to whom I gravitated, their work revealed common themes:
Financial means do not determine human worth.
Happiness is a choice available to anyone, regardless of financial status.
Personal qualities, whether desirable or undesirable, are not exclusive to any particular group and are therefore not dictated by age, sex, skin color, religion, educational level, culture, or socioeconomic status. From those to whom much has been given, much is expected.
A single tenacious pinprick of light can penetrate the most stubborn darkness.
Forgiveness is more courageous than revenge.
Where there is hope, there is life.
And above all, the deepest desire abiding within each of us, however vehemently denied or disguised, is to be loved.
Armed with these literary insights into the human condition, I became a keen observer of how they were manifest in my immediate milieu, within the bounds of my own family as well as beyond. The role of interpersonal relationship dynamics in generating our individual and collective realities became increasingly apparent. The more I read, observed, and experienced, the more fascinating became the complexities of human relationships, their origins, evolution, and outcomes.
