Below, please find the first exercise submitted to the Harold B. Pricklepants Society, Scribbler's Edition. We, being a club of readers endeavoring to become better writers as well, have pledged to write a weekly piece for blog publication and the sharing thereof with our friends, family, and readers. Please feel free to comment. Please feel even freer to submit your own piece, notifying our society of your intent to join us as we follow in the inspiring footsteps of Miss Austen, the Misses Bronte, Mr. Lewis, and so many, many more who hopped up to journey down a barely trodden path braved by Moses, and later Chaucer and Shakespeare as we English speakers joined the party. Read, enjoy, live. All are welcome to meet in this wonderful place of words hosted by The Harold B. Pricklepants Society . For other readable entries, please visit Elizabeth and Lydia at their lovely blogs. I would love to link your blog. Just ask. : D
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A Moveable Read
Reading came to
me as naturally as breathing. I cannot
really recall a time in my life before the presence of books. The secure softness of my favorite “blankies”
complimented the cardboard-stiff covers of my beloved The Three Bears
Golden Book. I begged my parents (and
any one else I met) to read it to me; and, legend has it, by the age of two I
had the entire book memorized word-for-word.
I performed the classic parlor trick of “reading” to astonished
relatives and guests, turning the pages precisely, intoning with just the right
dramatic flair as chairs crashed and porridge cooled. My parents, neither fond of reading, found my
penchant for “reading” odd and a tad bit frightening, yet they indulged me with
books over Barbies and I happily went about the business of teaching myself to
read.
Before entering school, I could write out my entire name –
Debbie Ann Stugelmeyer – and read without assistance. (I have always found it surprising that my
parents bragged far louder about my prowess in spelling “Stugelmeyer,” than
about my ability to read The Cat in the Hat and other Seussian classics.) Thus, I entered school eager to discover the
world beyond book-of-the-month clubs and bookmobile visits of my little life.
Each new school I attended (of which I attended several, for
a vagabonding childhood necessitates the changing of schools) had a new library
to be explored; and each corresponding address change had a Public Library to
be experienced. I eagerly introduced
myself to each resident librarian, asking directions to new gateways of
adventure. I browsed, sampled, and
selected armloads of tales. Some
journeys took me through war-torn lands or disease-infested jungles; others
carried me aloft on the wings of hope found in loving adoptions or romantic happily-ever-afters. I boarded ocean liners bound for Europe,
traveled in jalopies through the Dust Bowl, and most avidly read of prairie
schooners carrying pioneers to new lands.
Some books talked of worlds most fantastic, while others shed light on
long-ago times; but, each and every book carried me breathlessly through to The
End, whereupon I scurried back to the library for the next great read on my
list. What a feast I found at the
library – and all for free!
At home, my little private library continued to grow as
birthday presents and holiday gifts increasingly held bound stories worthy of
being preserved in my library. Dr. Seuss
and the Golden Books moved down a bit to make room for Laura Ingalls and Trina,
along with Katie John, Caddie Woodlawn, and my most favorite heroine: Robin of The Velvet Room. Each pending change of address had me
ensuring that each precious volume made it into a box marked “Debbie’s Books”
and onto the truck by my own locomotion.
I took no chances with this precious cargo. On occasion, I would panic as a tidal wave of
boxes flooded our new residence and my books could not be located. “Where are my books?” I wailed, certain that
they had toppled off the truck as we careened over a set of railroad tracks in
the dark of night. I pictured the box thrown
violently to the ground, torn asunder, spilling its fragile contents into the
path of doom from oncoming cars, wild animals, or gully-washing storms. (Along with an ever growing appetite for
books, I nurtured a taste for drama that quickly enveloped my emerging
adolescence.) Panicking did little to
aid in locating the errant box, which always turned up safe and sound amongst
the linens and toys, kitchenware and mementos.
Once “Debbie’s Books” had been located, I scurried away to my room (or
my side of the room) and set about unpacking and settling Jane Eyre and Dr
Seuss and all the rest. I would sit back
and sigh with contentment while each binding smiled back at me, “We’re
home.”
As I grew, wisdom bade me select a unique and easily
identifiable box to house my library-on-the-move. A white “Inglenook” wine box served perfectly
to cosset my treasures within its sturdy sides.
(Wine bottles, like books, require careful handling, I noted as I
marveled at the doubly-reinforced cardboard.)
The bright white box color stood out splendidly in a sea of ordinary
brown moving cartons, thus I never again fretted at locating MY box. Once the box had been duly located and
unpacked at the newest destination, I carefully stored it away in my closet for
the next move, which would surely be sooner than hoped for.
Years passed, several more addresses took up residence next
to my name and my cache of treasured books rode safely to each new abode in
their increasingly battered container.
Then along came time to pack for college.
Only essentials followed me to UCLA. Sadly, at 18 years of age, I no longer had
the room for my most constant “childhood friends.” My one-bedroom apartment, to be shared by three
freshmen girls, possessed but a single half-sized bookcase, of which I gained
ownership of one mere shelf. “Sorry Jane
Eyre, Elizabeth Bennet, Scarlett O’Hara, and Mr. Cat in the Hat and friends,”
I apologized, “ You’re not moving to the Big City with me this time.” I drove away with sheets and towels and a
brand-new dictionary rather than my steadfast library buddies, whom I left in
my younger sister’s charge.
Years passed, I graduated with a degree in English, married
a sweet heart of a man, and we eventually bought our First Home (a condo,
actually). I relieved my father-in-law
of the stuff I had packed away in his shed years back when I moved from the
tiny freshman apartment to a tinier room in a sorority house. Then I visited my mom at her newest address
to retrieve what few items she had offered to store for me since I left for
college. We successfully located a box
of high-school-and-before memorabilia (like my first yo-yo and a packet of
stickers I received as a gift the day my newborn sister arrived home from the
hospital in 1966), some badly-dated LP records, and a stash of heirloom
pillowcases embroidered by my great-grandmother. Sadly, the Inglenook box of library treasures
had vanished during one or another of recent moving events.
I confronted my sister, with a bit more anger than warranted,
regarding the missing library and her lack of stewardship of such prized
possessions left in her care. She stared
back blankly and said, “Books? What
books?”
“Gone . . .” I mouthed in despair, the drama of long ago
still very much alive in me.
I left with several boxes but no nostalgic library.
Life trundled on, carrying me along to greet three babies,
a new address, and then two more babies.
I gathered many, many books along the way, though they never quite took
the place of my first literary loves.
One day, we packed up and moved far away to a larger place
that would house my family of seven plus my mother, whose health required
nursing care. Boxes and boxes of books
filled the trucks alongside our family belongings marked, “toys,” “kitchen,” and
more. A wave of boxes flooded the large
garage, and soon a second wave of boxes belonging to my mother joined them. As I surveyed and sifted the myriad of moved
materials, attempting to formulate a plan of action (or should I say, attack?),
I espied a rather disheveled white box in the distance. “Can it be?” I whispered as I hurtled over
two lifetimes’ worth of accumulation. I
pulled the tattered box free, faintly hoping to find the beloved “Inglenook”
label emblazoned on the side. “IT IS!” I
shouted as I tore away what remained of the box top flaps.
I have no idea how long I sat on that garage floor,
surrounded by boxes and debris, as I lovingly lifted and gazed on each long-lost
book. More than twenty years had passed
since I had seen these editions . . . my books . . . my very first library! These dear treasures and friends had somehow
slipped into a dark corner of a distant storage cell and languished forgotten
and alone, until now.
* *
* * *
“Hey mom,” called my 10-year-old daughter, “Are you out
here?”
“Yes,” I sputtered, “Yes, I am! Come on out here! I want you to meet some folks I knew a long
time ago.”
