The wonder of stories.
I’ve always been a reader. I loved books even before I knew what the words said. I loved the feel of them. I loved the smell of them. And, I loved the secrets they held. Before I could read for myself, my father used to read to me at bedtime. It was a special one-on-one time; just him, me and a story. As I grew up, no matter what was happening in my life, I could safely disappear into another world for a while, where good won through; where wonders were waiting around the corner ready to be discovered, and where heroes and heroines would save the day. If I got sick of being teased (everyone gets teased at some time or other), in the lunch break I could always find a safe, quiet respite in the school library. Now, I was one of the lucky kids. I had a bunch of good friends, and I usually got along well with others. Most people who went to school with me, would tell you that I was popular and was never a victim of bulllying. That’s because I quickly learned how to turn those hurtful jabs into jokes, and did my crying at home. When someone said something hurtful about my weight or my glasses or our families’ lack of money, I’d read one of my favourite Wonder Woman comics and think, “Little do they know!” I read everything I could lay my hands on. Before I’d even got to high school, I was reading my father’s books (not always suitable for an 11 year old!) and one of my older sisters borrowed books from the adult section of the public library for me. I especially loved reading the folk tales and legends of other countries, and anything about ancient history. At night, I would dream of being an Egyptian princess, or a visitor to Narnia, or chasing the minotaur through the labyrinth at Knossos, or defeating the evil heart with Charlie in the Wrinkle of TIme. Reading didn’t just enrich my imagination. It stirred my curiosity, it enhanced my language skills, it made me aware that there are other cultures and languages that are just as valid as my own. It brought the world into my bedroom. While I was having fun, I was also learning stuff. I hope the younger generation are also discovering the delights of reading, of story-telling and of using their imagination. I just have an awful, sinking feeling that many of them aren’t. If that is the case, we will all be the poorer for it. What were some of your favourite books when you were growing up? What type did you enjoy? Did they influence how you see the world?
Yes, aren’t books wonderful companions in our busy lives. The book is always there, ready for you whenever you can find some time for it. I read lots of Enid Blyton books when I was young, and my mum and/or older brother read Gulliver’s Travels at bedtime for a while when I was upper primary age, I think.
The Silver Brumby stories of Elyne Mitchell had me enthralled for a year or so too, and then there was Agatha Christie with Hercule Poirot and their mysteries … And my dad liked to read some Bush Ballads of Banjo Paterson at the dinner table sometimes too, which I feel gave me a love for Rhythm and Rhyme.
All excellent choices! I was a big fan of Blyton’s Secret Seven. Also, at one stage, I owned all the Agatha Christie books. I finally gave them away, when I was forced to make room for more books. I’d read them all about fifty times each, so I figured it was time to move on.
Today we are drowning in stories. Every TV ad is a little story. There’s so much television drama and “reality” series that are all stories. My wife and I watch TV not just wanting to know what comes next. We construct and reconstruct the story in advance as we watch. Most of the time we get it right. When we were younger the load of story was lesser. We had books, magazines and the radio. And also whenever people got together to socialise the air was full of stories.
I learn to read early. My nana bought me one of the Secret Seven books when I was about 8. I remember reading it that evening sitting on a footstool under the dining room table. When she realised I had finished the book she was shocked. But I assured her that I would read it again and again, which I did.
From the late fifties through the sixties I read mostly science fiction (which we called SF). Then we reached the ultimate goal of the Year 2000 . . . and life just went on. So I gave all my SF collection to a young student who reminded me of myself at that age. Now I’m packing a box of books that I might have to take to a retirement home when it comes to that. Strangely they are most fantasy.
There’s a theory that when we are young we read fiction to figure out how to be a person and how the social world works. When we get older and have all that under our belt we turn to reading factual material, so that our thoughts are less about ourselves and more about the world we find ourselves in.
I realised when I officially retired that I was able to collect a Bookshelf of the Unread. These are about 300 books I have bought over the year but never finished. Many of them have bookmarks partly through them. Now I’m working my way through them. Currently on the desk are: John Donne selected prose, the Seamus Heaney Beowulf, the Quest of the Holy Grail and Madeleine L’Engle Walking on Water. I think I read all the easy ones when I was younger.
That’s interesting, Ken. I admit that I haven’t yet turned to “factual stuff” apart from history and myths and legends of the world (which, come to think of it, aren’t that factual!) In years, society would class me as “older” or even “old” but in my own estimation I’ve yet to leave my 30s. I prefer my version of accounting, than society’s hang-up with numbers.
I find that as I approach 70 I become more truly the 14 year old boy that I really am.
Love it!