03
I love to read. I don’t mean that in a I-pick-up-the-latest-Oprah-recommended-book-to-read-at-the-pool kind of way, I mean I am kind of obsessed with reading. When I was younger, my parents believed that reading was a means to an end…you have to know how to read well in order to do well in school, to study. So we didn’t have very many books in the house. This turned out not to be a big problem for me–I read manuals, for everything and anything. I think that’s why I have a pretty good grasp of most mechanical concepts at this point in my life. Thanks, Mom and Dad!
In fifth grade, one of the books on our required reading list was The Hobbit. Most of my classmates grumbled and complained at it’s length, it’s use of “big” words, it’s somewhat complex back story. I couldn’t get enough of Tolkien’s writing. Everyone else skimmed the descriptive passages, I read them intensely, imagining each detail in my head. So when I was done with The Hobbit, I scoured our tiny school library for more Tolkien. Lo and behold, I found The Lord of the Rings.
I trotted up to the checkout desk laden with my treasure, placed it on the counter, and grinned like a monkey. Our school librarian looked at me over the top of her little glasses and smiled condescendingly.
“I think these are a bit above your age level, dear. Why don’t you try some C.S. Lewis?”
Not one to be turned away so easily, I made some smart ass comment. I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I know it shocked her, because I can remember her face looking like someone had smacked her. She shook her head, and slammed the books around a little, but I had won the battle, and I lugged the books home with me that day.
I didn’t sleep for the next three nights, and I really didn’t care. This was it, what I had been looking for in all those insipid short stories in our Literature books and that irritating Babysitters Club tripe. I didn’t want paragraphs of descriptions of horrid school dances, I wanted a tale of honor and glory and love and war. (Especially the war. I really liked that.) And so began my love affair with LOTR. For the next 3 years I had one or more of the books in my possession at all times, until in the fall of 8th grade, my librarian pointed out that someone else may want to read them, occasionally. So I begged and pleaded with my parents (who were utterly confused–what 13 year old girl wants books instead of clothes for Christmas?) and I hoped and hoped until on Christmas morning, I saw the package. It was rectangular and heavy, and I did a little dance because I knew what it was.
I still have those books, and I still read them. They are extremely well-loved, spines worn and separating and pages dog eared. Like the Velveteen Rabbit–if you love them enough, they become Real.