Books Of My Childhood
Like it is for so many others, each book that I’ve read has found its way into the fabric of my being, has helped form whom I’ve become ~ mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend, teacher, writer – and who I’ve yet to become.
Being the youngest of six didn’t allow for much alone time in our home, so I had to be creative in finding a place to call my own. Growing up we had a toy box that my father’s students made for our family. It was painted robin egg blue and was my perfect sanctuary. I would toss out all the stuffed animals, dolls and puzzle pieces and climb in with a pillow and immerse myself books like The Little House by Virginia Lee Burton, Richard Scarry’s Best First Book Ever!, Are You My Mother by P.D. Eastman and The Story of Ferdinand by Munro Leaf and illustrated by Robert Lawson.
I was completely enamored with Ferdinand, the tenderhearted bull, who only wanted to sit and smell the flowers. I would while away the hours reading about Ferdinand and poring over the illustrations. I thought I had died and gone to heaven when I was given a record (remember those?) with a narrator reading the story aloud so I could follow along.
When I finally graduated to the thrilling world of chapter books it was Laura Ingalls Wilder’s The Little House on the Prairie series made me into an avid reader. I would escape to Wilder’s unsettled prairie, beginning with The Little House in the Big Woods and eight books later end with The First Four Years. Then I’d start all over again.
These books led me to the idyllic adventures of Betsy, Tacy, and Tib by Maud Hart Lovelace, I met the smart and sassy Harriet the Spy, and visited the war torn home of Jo March and her sisters in Little Women. Inside this toy box (which I still have) was where the seeds of becoming a writer were planted.
In junior high, I was in that somewhat awkward stage of wanting to read more mature books and remaining tenuously ensconced within the books where I found comfort. I was scared witless by Stephen King’s Cujo and Christine. I was scandalized by Colleen McCullough’s The Thornbirds (and my mother was too when she caught me reading it) and I was broken-hearted to learn that someone my age could have had such a tragic, heart-wrenching childhood as Anne Frank.
In between these ventures into adult books I would always return to some of my old standbys: Ramona and Her Father by Beverly Cleary and the Choose Your Own Adventure series. In high school, I had a wonderful teacher who introduced me Sherwood Anderson’s Winesburg, Ohio and the intricate but surprisingly lonely lives of its inhabitants. It was within the pages of this book of short stories that I learned the power of unforgettable characters.
When I was a college student I stumbled onto what would become my favorite author and novel – Willa Cather’s My Ántonia. Cather’s writing is beautiful. I love the way that she could describe the setting in a novel and it actually seemed to become a character within the story. Cather’s writings showed me the magic and impact of words. I revisit My Ántonia and O Pioneers every single year and can only dream of writing such powerful stories.
Also, while in college, I had the opportunity to meet one of my favorite authors. I was at an Iowa Hawkeye basketball game with a group of friends when I recognized a gentleman sitting a few rows in front of us. I said to my friends, There’s John Irving, and they asked which player is that? The Hotel New Hampshire? The World According to Garp? Nothing.
I mustered up the courage told him what a big fan I was and asked him for his autograph and he signed the back of my ticket stub and encouraged me in my writing. I still have that ticket and still carry his kind words with me.
It wasn’t until I was an adult and a mother myself that I discovered Betty Smith’s A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. If I could read a book again for the first time it would it would be this one. When you close a book and realize immediately that you desperately miss the characters and can’t stand not knowing what has become of them, you know it is a very special book.
Betty Smith had a way of writing and talking to the reader in such a way that I found myself in dialogue with her. Yes, that is exactly how it is! I would exclaim (most of the time this was an inner dialogue, but not always). There is such a truth to her stories, a turn of phrase that leaves you nodding your head.
Evenings remain that time of day, like Ferdinand the Bull who sits to smell the flowers, when I’m able to stop and grab those few extra minutes (or if I’m lucky –hours) of reading. I dig into my tottering to-be-read pile that has grown taller and taller and even manage to revisit some of my old tried and true favorites.
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Heather Gudenkauf is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of The Weight of Silence and Missing Pieces. She lives in Iowa with her family. Visit heathergudenkauf.com to learn more about Heather and her novels.
Category: Contemporary Women Writers, On Writing
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I loved this post because, Heather, I think you are me. From Ferdinand to Stephen King, we were reading the same stuff at the same age. And I totally would have stalked John Irving with you. Oh, the transcendent qualities of a good book.