Most writers are also devoted readers. In fact, a love of reading, books, indeed for stories of all kinds, is almost always at the heart of why we begin writing. Most of us read voraciously from an early age. I thought it might be fun to share some of my favorite books from all the stages of my life, starting from childhood.
I learned to love stories snuggled on my father’s lap and later, sitting cross-legged at his feet. But he didn’t read the normal children’s books to my sister and me. He regaled us with his own dramatic telling of the Greek myths, the stories of the operas, the fairy tales of the Brothers Grimm, or old Germanic legends. Two sagas I especially enjoyed are intertwined in my memory: the Troll Mountain King (based on the Peer Gynt suite by Edvard Grieg, 1867 and the brave dwarfs of the “Ring of the Nibelungen” by Richard Wagner. The only picture book I can recall that he read to us was the English translation of the classic German Struwwelpeter. See blog, “Kindererziehung or Growing up with Struwwelpeter,” posted June 5, 2015. https://klangslattery.com/blog/entry/kindererziehung-or-growing-up-with-struwwelpeter
I think it was my grandmother Clara, a gentler person, who used to read to me from A Child’s Garden of Verses (1885) by Robert Lewis Stevenson. I enjoyed the poems, as well as the lovely illustrations. Because I often was sick with a cold or an earache, I especially loved the poem “The Land of Counterpane.” When I was home from school, sick in bed, I spent my time making and playing with paper dolls, so I could easily identify with a child who used imaginative play to relieve loneliness.
When I was old enough to go to school, Dick, Jane, and Baby Sally, the main characters in the reading primers in use in the classrooms of the late 1940s and early 1950s, became my friends. Learning to read opened doors of enchantment for me and the “Dick and Jane” beginning readers were my first experience with this way of seeing how other people lived.
I do remember two favorite picture books, though I have no clear picture of who read them to me—whether it was my mother or my grandmother or if I read them on my own.
The Little Engine that Could by Watty Piper, 1930
Katy and the Big Snow by Virginia Lee Burton, 1943. I was crazy for the tough, brave, little snowplow who shared my name, though in my opinion it was spelled wrong—I felt Katie was the only good way to write the name.
Of course, we read a lot in those days. We did not have TV! By the mid-1950s, most other families had television, but not my family. In fact, the glaring eye of the TV only appeared in my parent’s living room in about 1962, when I was already away at college. As children, my sister and I sprawled on the living room rug to listen to radio shows, read the Sunday Funnies (cartoon strips) from my father’s newspaper, and devour our books.
As soon as I was able to read on my own, I always kept a book under my bed. When I woke up on weekend mornings, I simply reached down for my book and began reading. As long as my mother thought I was still asleep, I could disappear into the exciting story of the book in my hands. But sooner or later, she would open the door to our bedroom and flick the light switch up and down. “Up and Adam. Time to start your weekend chores.” How I hated that jarring morning announcement.
Here are some of my favorites . . . books that spent their nights under my bed:
The Boxcar Children by Gertrude Chandler Warner, 1942. Four orphaned children make their home in an abandoned boxcar. Their goal is to stay together, and in the process, they find a grandfather.
The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and many more of the series originated by L. Frank Baum, 1900. It used to drive my mother crazy that I enjoyed so many of these books which she did not consider worthy. In the hope of improving my reading matter, I was given a set of “The World’s Popular Classics” for Christmas one year. I later read and enjoyed all of these books, which included Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea by Jules Vern (1877) and Black Beauty by Anna Sewell (1870), two of my favorites.
Nancy and Plum by Betty MacDonald, 1952. I remember this book was a gift from my grandmother, Clara. I was entranced by the story of mistreated orphans who find a better life with a loving family who give them beautiful dolls for Christmas.
The Swiss Family Robinson by Johann Wyss, 1912 in Switzerland.
Heidi by Johanna Spyri, 1881 in Switzerland. I had a wonderful 1945 Illustrated Junior Library Edition with beautiful watercolor and pen and ink illustrations which may have jump-started my love of art, too.
Mistress Masham’s Repose by T.H.White, 1946. My all-time favorite. A lonely orphan being raised by mean relatives in England finds a lost colony of Lilliputians and tries in misguided ways to make their lives better. More than a children’s book, it is also a cautionary political tale.
The Wonderful Adventures of Nils by Selma Lagerlöf, 1907 in Sweden. This book was given to me as a Christmas gift by my father because it had been his childhood favorite. 540 pages of small print with only a few illustrations, its density deterred me for a while. But when I read it, I loved the story of a cruel and naughty farm boy in Sweden who is bewitched by an elf and finds himself suddenly only twelve inches tall. For one season, he travels the length and breadth of Sweden on the back of a wild goose and learns many life lessons, including kindness to smaller creatures. More than anything, this book made me yearn to travel.
These books enlightened my childhood and influenced my development. Among them is a preponderance of fantasy and stories of children (often orphans) who meet challenges on their own without the help of their parents. I think the only exception is The Swiss Family Robinson, a story where the parents have a role and which instilled in me a strong desire to see new things and experience unusual places.
What books did you read as a child and how did they influence you?
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