Stories and books began for me with Aunt Edith. My mom’s oldest sister, she was an elementary school teacher then living in Ohio who visited our big old farmhouse near Winchester, KY, frequently during my childhood.
Their mother had died young, leaving eight children to be raised by their father in depression-era Appalachia (in Breathitt County, KY). Edith stepped into the role of substitute mother for the brood… finishing college at Eastern Kentucky University, returning home to the mountains to teach, staying single through her young adult years to help her father raise the young ones. As her siblings grew up and had children of their own, she moved north to make her own life but continued to love, support, and indulge her nieces and nephews.
I had a brother and sister who were ten and eight years older than me, joined by a baby brother when I was seven. With no siblings of my own age, I often played alone or with imaginary friends. While my mother was loving and warm, she was often busy with household chores in our big old farmhouse in Clark County, KY. Her kitchen always smelled of special delights, her cupboards were stuffed with canned goods from the garden, and her wringer washer spit out endless loads for drying on the clothesline. In my early years our water had to be pumped from a well, and the only heat for the big drafty rooms came from the kitchen stove and wood hauled to a fireplace.
Mom would find time to sew lovely dresses and pinafores for me, and she often produced homemade treats such as popcorn balls, peanut-butter-roll candy and her special fudge, but she seldom had the time or inclination to sit still and read with me. My father read to me occasionally; his lap was the best place to be. Books were scarce and occasionally came from the library’s bookmobile, rarely from a store.
Aunt Edith’s visits were filled with books and stories, crafts and supplies, cuddles and games, treats and trips, and sometimes even new clothes; she always had time and plans for the children. In my child’s mind, she was much like a fairy godmother. She showed us how to make Christmas ornaments and small trees out of nylon net or old books and spray paint... I especially enjoyed the colorful pots of finger paint she supplied with a long roll of paper for unlimited doodling. At Easter she brought baskets, egg coloring kits, store-bought candy, and always a chocolate bunny for each basket. And she read to me! 
One of my Easter baskets was especially precious because it held a small book, The Tale of Peter Rabbit, by Beatrix Potter, plus a Wedgwood cup with a design matching the book illustrations (I still have both), and a big yellow stuffed rabbit. I was over the moon! Long after I could read for myself, I begged any likely-looking passer-by, “Please, please read Peter Rabbit to me!” I was frequently a sick child, often confined to indoors; cuddling with the little Peter Rabbit book and my big yellow stuffed rabbit was soothing and reassuring. 
I loved that Peter was welcomed home by a loving mother even
after his mischief, and that he had a family of playmates. Best of all, it was
my very own book! I also kept an active lookout for a real rabbit family
scampering around our garden or fields – mixing in the idea of another
favorite, The Velveteen Rabbit, by Margery Williams, about a stuffed
rabbit who became real because he was loved.
Around that time there were more
funny and troublesome rabbits to discover. In the Uncle Remus tale of Brer
Rabbit and the Tar Baby, by Joel Chandler Harris, Brer Rabbit begged not to
be thrown in the briar patch… a tricky way to avoid being punished. It is not politically correct today, but I loved it then.
[See The Complicated History of Uncle Remus, by Stacy Reece, Down South House & Home, https://downsouth.house/blogs/news/the-complicated-history-of-uncle-remus]
Not to be missed, Bambi had Thumper, Alice had the White Rabbit... and on our new television, Captain Kangaroo had Mister Bunny Rabbit, and cartoons had Bugs Bunny. Uncle Wiggily Longears, the old gentleman rabbit, used outlandish, funny words in many different stories and was a special favorite. For a while we even had some live but rather troublesome rabbits in a backyard hutch. Rabbits were “my thing.”
Another book of my very own was a large-size Big Golden Book, Walt Disney’s Alice in Wonderland, by Lewis Carroll. Alice’s curiosity and puzzling adventures were comical but helped her to grow up and learn new things without fear.
The Alice book’s mate, Walt Disney’s Cinderella, officially belonged to my sister but was one of my favorites. Cinderella’s ball gown was homemade, like the pretty dresses that my mother made for me. Her fairy godmother seemed to have a great physical resemblance to my Aunt Edith. I wasn’t too enamored of the Handsome Prince, but rather was fascinated by all the little animals that helped Cinderella because she was kind to them.
Featuring the age-old story, this edition (c. 1950) had a pop-up pumpkin/coach on the inside front cover, which to me was as magical as the story.
Honorable mention must go to the Rogers and Hammerstein production of Cinderella for television in 1965, starring young Lesley Ann Warren. She was so lovely, the music and costumes so beautiful, it was simply spellbinding. The song In My Own Little Corner, In My Own Little Chair was my special favorite.
A beloved book that deserves to be mentioned in my list of favorites has no name that I remember and was so worn that the front cover was missing. It was a very thick, heavy literature book for teachers (again from Aunt Edith, outdated from her classroom) with small type and no illustrations, published in the 1940s, I think. It held a large number and wide variety of stories, fables, poems, and songs, arranged by reading grade level, K-12. Some that come to mind are Up in a Swing, Puss-n-Boots, The Princess and the Pea, Hansel and Gretel, O Captain My Captain, The Village Blacksmith, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, The Walrus and the Carpenter, The Marine Hymn, The Caisson Song, Annabelle Lee, and many more… I spent countless hours reading and re-reading from cover to cover. I enjoyed the feeling of accomplishment when reading ‘ahead of my grade level,’ and I firmly credit this book for solidifying my lifelong love of reading.
Misty of Chincoteague, by Marguerite Henry, is an unforgettable favorite that must be included here. This Newberry-award-winning book was handed down from my older siblings. The enchanting real-life story described how the ponies arrived on the island long ago and survived for centuries, and the present-day adventures of the siblings and ponies made a tender, exciting and relatable tale.
For a while we boarded and were sometimes allowed to ride a pinto pony named Buttermilk, which strengthened our love for and feeling of connection to the story of Misty. The wild herd, the amazing “pony swim,” the 1961 movie made from the book, ongoing live news about Misty and her friends, and even our own home’s location amid the horse country of the Kentucky bluegrass solidified this story in each of our hearts for a lifetime.
Other childhood favorites that come to mind include picture books such as The Cat in the Hat, Are You My Mother?, The Five Chinese Brothers, Put Me in the Zoo - and later, stories such as Heidi, the Nancy Drew series, Jane Eyre, and Wuthering Heights.
Oops, can’t forget Christmas!
Along with many American children of the time, I heard two different storylines for Christmas – religious and secular. My youthful understanding was that the birth of Christ was the real reason for the season, to be honored in church and in our hearts; Santa and related commercial trappings were a fun way to celebrate such a special event. Kinda like a big birthday party for Jesus, in the spirit of giving. Shaky theology, maybe, but the mind of a child finds its own logic.
Why the Chimes Rang, by Raymond MacDonald Alden, was an old but much-loved book in our household, a must-read at Christmas time and throughout the year. I can’t do better than this online review:
“This is a beautifully written story based on an old legend. It has wonderful evocative symbolism: the old church with a bell tower soaring into the sky, touching the clouds and waiting for a perfect gift for the Christ child, a perfect gift of love. The beautiful illustrations by Mayo Bunker, enhanced with color, add much to this edition. The wonderful church set high on a hill in the midst of a great city somewhere far away, the Gothic church interior, the angel acting as the clapper – very evocative!” – Robert O. Adair.
The Night Before Christmas, by Clement C. Moore, illustrated by George Trimmer – this specific large-size 1958 linen paperback version was filled with vibrant colors and outstanding illustrations. It has been read every Christmas Eve that I can remember, forming my mental images of Santa and Christmas for a lifetime. Today, 65 years later, it still comes out of storage to go under my holiday tree. We also had a thin paperback holiday song book; I remember my dad singing softly, almost in a whisper, to teach me the tune to O Little Town of Bethlehem.
One Christmas Eve in that big, cold farmhouse, I was snugly tucked into a roll-away bed in the living room under toasty layers of homemade quilts, firmly determined to stay awake long enough to see Santa come bounding down the chimney. Hearing distant reindeer bells, watching sparkling embers and multi-colored tree lights, clutching my doll Suzie and willing my heavy eyelids to stay open, I fully expected to see the head elf himself appear at any moment – but my spying efforts were never successful.
Christmas morning was a mystical delight, defined by the sights and smells of crisp, cold oranges, apples, nuts, and candy sprinkled on and around the plump stockings, mysterious bright packages, and fragrant, sparkling pine tree.
Thank you, Mom and Dad, and Aunt Edith, too – for the love, work and sacrifices that made so many magical memories.
No comments:
Post a Comment