I am participating in the American Cancer Society’s challenge to write for thirty minutes each day in May. I do a lot of writing and I can meet this challenge. I plan to make a blog entry each day with what I’ve written.
I wanted to participate in memory of loved ones who fought cancer bravely but succumbed:
My brother-in-law Jeff
My sister-in-law Ann
My dear friend Kay
My Uncle Bob
My Uncle John
I also wanted to help raise money to support research and a cure for those currently fighting this vicious disease.
My Facebook to the fundraiser is here.I am a lifelong bookaholic. When we used to live across the street and around the corner from my Grandma, she would pick me up after school. We would spend the afternoons together. At least once a week, we would walk to the end of her street and visit the most impressive place I’d been to in my young life: the library.
Grandma was a reader. She visited the library to choose more of her grown-up books to read. Those books were big and had no pictures. I dearly wanted to be able to read them, and she promised that someday I would.
The library seemed huge. I hadn’t seen so many bookshelves in one room in any other place. It seemed miraculous to me that one could come in and bring home books to read for free.
There was a children’s section, and Grandma would let me pick a book to take back to her house. Wow! So many choices! I had to look at as many of them as I could to decide which one I wanted to read most.
I don’t remember how I learned to read. Might it have been from the books borrowed from the library? Many of Dr. Seuss’ books would help a child learn. Could it be from following my Dad’s finger as he read to me? I didn’t know it at the time, but Dad’s reading skills weren’t all that great. He was Deaf, and his reading level lagged behind most hearing adults. It had to do with the education system and the fact he couldn’t hear words clearly.
Regardless of how I learned, I could already read when I began kindergarten.
Sometimes I would go with Grandma when she went grocery shopping. There was a stand filled with Little Golden Books. Grandma collected them and had quite a library of them at her house. They were a wonderful on a rainy day when Grandma was too busy to play a board game. Grandma knew how much I loved the books and so she would ask me to pick one out to add to her library. I felt so proud.
Grandma’s love of reading passed to my mom. Now, Mom was Deaf too. Her education was even more deprived than Dad’s because her school didn’t allow her to learn sign language at all. Not only that, she had to spend much of her time in lipreading classes. She found them difficult and a frustrating waste of time, so she left school before her graduation. Her written language and reading skills skyrocketed because she loved books too. We had a bookcase filled with classics and other of Mom’s favorites. She encouraged me to read as many of them as I liked.
At ten, I tried some of them. I found that I couldn’t understand Moby Dick or Vanity Fair, so I decided to wait a few more years and contented myself with the school library and the Bookmobile. The Bookmobile was an extension of the Enoch Pratt Library. It was a fun way to find books, and I devoured them.
By junior high, I was making my way through all of Mom’s classics: Jane Eyre, Of Human Bondage, Love Is Eternal, Of Human Bondage, The Brothers Karamazov, Gone With The Wind, and I did try Moby Dick again but couldn’t get past the first few pages. There was Ben-Hur, The Robe, The Big Fisherman, and so many others in her collection.
I got my own library card, and it was my prized possession. I loved to take the city bus downtown to the main Enoch Pratt Library. It was enormous. My Grandma’s library was miniscule in comparison. I had a field day in that library: rooms full of fiction, non-fiction, magazines, other reading material and microfiche machines if I needed to look up old newspaper articles. I would have happily spent days and nights there.
Things haven’t changed. When my kids were born, I read to them from the get-go. I would hold the infant and either recite a book from memory (like Goodnight Moon or Hop On Pop) or I’d support them and guide them through a touch-feel book. They are all readers, all three of them.
Now I pass my love of reading to the students I tutor. If I can inspire them to enjoy reading, I feel I am successful.
I keep a separate journal to record the books I’ve read. The journals go back years. Part of this challenge entry is going into my book journal.
I belong to Good Reads and am taking part in their yearly book reading challenge.
I saw To Fill
A Yellow House by Sussie Anie on a display table when I walked into the library
to pick up a book I’d requested. I was intrigued by the cover, a young boy
stretching up on tiptoe with a thin paintbrush. The rest of the cover was
yellow with orange lettering. I read the reviews on the back cover and decided
to check it out.
I enjoyed the
book although there were some issues that remained unclear to me, and perhaps
that was intentional.
Kwasi was the
little boy on the cover. When he’s first introduced, he’s seven years old and
living in a large house on the outskirts of London. He has a very busy
household: parents, two aunts, and many “aunties” that come and go. That was
the first puzzle to unravel. Who were all these “aunties?”
Kwasi, a
sensitive child, loves to draw. One day on an outing, he sees a quaint little
shop and is intrigued by it. He sketches it but is gathered up by his aunties
before he can go into it. His parents
and aunties are very protective of him and he’s almost never out of their
sight. He’s not allowed out but one day sneaks out and goes back to the shop.
The door is
open, but no one is there. The shop is filled with a variety of curious knick-knacks,
lamps, fabrics, toys, and furniture. He
sits down behind the till and makes a drawing of everything he sees, filling in
the details. A noise scares him and he bolts for the door.
The shopkeeper
comes up from the basement but isn’t able to catch Kwasi. The shopkeeper’s name
is Rupert. He is still grieving the loss of his wife, Jada. This curiosity shop
was their dream. Much of the money they make from the secondhand donations to
the shop are made to a charity. The shopkeeper has an addiction to something
that is “perfectly legal” and can be brewed into a tea or coffee. Another
puzzle.
There is a
larger than life presence in the neighborhood: Councilman Obi. He has a son
Kwasi’s age, Jericho. Here is another puzzle: is King Obi a good guy or not? He
seems to be, but he also seems to be feared by residents in the neighborhood
because he’s pushing for progress.
After the
introductory chapters, Kwasi ages to about 15. There have been many changes and
a few answers to puzzles. His parents are Ghanian immigrants and all the extra “aunties”
that come and go seem to be refugees from war-torn places. Kwasi’s father has
moved semi-permanently back to Ghana, working on a years-long project.
Kwasi is
still helicoptered by his mother and aunties. He is alternately bullied and invited
to join Jericho and his gang of friends. They seem to be involved in some
nefarious doings which Kwasi wants no part of.
Instead,
Kwasi has been secretly visiting Rupert at his shop. Rupert found Kwasi’s
drawing left behind, liked it and framed it. When he realizes that his new
visitor is the artist, he befriends Kwasi and encourages him.
It’s a tale
told sensitively of love, grief, self-acceptance, and friendship. There is more
to the story than I’m sharing but I don’t want to give it all away. I liked it
very much and would rate it higher except for some of the ambiguous puzzles I
haven’t been able to work out completely.
