By the time I was four, I was already in love with books.
My favorite (which I still have) was Dr. Seuss’s Horton Hatches the Egg. It’s inscribed to me from my mother’s best friend, a gift on my fourth birthday. I memorized every line of Horton and demanded to hear it read over and over. My parents got so tired of reading it that they would skip parts. I was having none of that. Whatever they skipped, I would recite, make them go back, and “read it right.”
I loved other books, too, like the Pooh series, and Uncle Wiggly.
What?! My parents allowed me to deface my books? Apparently so. This isn’t the only one. I embellished most of my books this way. I added to the stories. They wouldn’t be worth much on the collectibles market, would they? But they’re special to me.
A. A. Milne’s illustrations didn’t do it for me. I had to add a little artwork of my own.
Only child. Quiet house. Books and crayons. I was drawn to imagination and the world of stories. It took a while for me to discover that I really could be a storyteller. Years and years. But here are my beginnings.
What role did books play in your early childhood?
This is Day Four of Jane Ann McLachlan’s October Memoir and Backstory Blog Challenge. Follow the link to learn more.