A Portait of the Reader As A Child

"Nothing in the whole world felt as good as being able to make something from a sudden idea." -Beverly Cleary, "Ramona Quimby, Age 8"


Ever since I mentioned the unsinkable Ramona Quimby in a posting a few days ago, I haven't been able to get the sassy little girl out of my mind. It's led me on a surprising, pleasant journey to a time in my childhood when I was first beginning to grow into something resembling the man I am today: a serious, devoted reader. I've been thinking about all the books I loved as a child, from the time when my mom read me books, to the years when I chose my own reading material. Books have shaped me. Indeed, they still do. To this day, whenever I read a good book, it makes me want to jump up and view the world through different, clearer eyes. Books have tremendous power.

My mom is currently sending me a new copy of what was undoubtedly my first favorite book, "Morris Goes to School" by B. Wiseman. My original copy is tucked away at home, but for the sake of posterity -- and the fact that it is well-read, well-loved, and, hence, well-worn -- we decided to keep it where it's at. I will soon have my hands on a new copy of "Morris", and I (a 31-year-old man) CAN'T WAIT.

"Morris Goes to School" was one of the books that my mother read to me in the years before I could read. It's surprisingly long (60+ pages, if memory serves), but that didn't deter me from picking it out night after night after night. I had a huge collection of children's books -- I clearly recall tons of Disney books -- but "Morris" was the one I always came back to. Repeatedly and ad nauseum. Often several nights in a row. Damn I loved that moose.

It's the story of the big lovable galoot Morris, who is (duh!) a moose. He lives amongst human children, who don't seem to find it the least bit odd that they are friends with a large, furry, none-too-bright land mammal. Morris is frustrated early on, as he figures out that he can't read or count, thereby setting him apart from the other children. He wants to buy gumdrops at the candy store, but he can't read the sign or count his money or figure out how many gumdrops he can buy. This inspires him to go to school, which he does, and is taught by the patient, bespectacled Miss Fine (who is also unfazed by the presence of a moose in her classroom). He struggles, of course, but by the end of the book, Morris is able to purchase a supply of gumdrops, and all is right with the world.

It's hard to say why I was so drawn to Morris. It certainly wasn't the counting lesson in the story. Even at a young age, my aversion to numbers was strong. It may have been that Morris was desperate to learn to read, and I too was at an age where I was ready to decipher those squiggles on the page and make sense of them. Or it also could've been the learned Miss Fine, with her wire-rimmed glasses, upturned nose, and short skirt. She was so hot.

I also enjoyed the Mercer Mayer and Richard Scarry books. I don't remember much about them, but I do recall my grandpa reading me several of the Mayer books. We would make it a game to find the one strategically-hidden baby creature (what the hell were those things? hedgehogs?) in every illustration. Bear in mind that this was in the pre-Waldo years.

The Scarry books are even less clear in my memory. I do know, though, that I loved the curvy brown earthworm who always wore a green hat with a jaunty red feather. Whenever the worms came out after a heavy rain, I used to search in vain for the one sporting the same accessory as Scarry's. I never found him.

By the time I was able to read, I was devouring Beverly Cleary and Judy Blume. Ramona Quimby was my hero. She appeared in many of Cleary's earlier Henry Huggins books, but she was always a supporting player and nothing more than the whiny little sister. It was a great vindication to read of her own adventures, therefore discovering the youngster in all her complicated, curious glory. None of her experiences were extreme or full of derring-do. They were simply the life events of a child, seen and understood through the eyes of a child. Ramona was the first literary character that showed me how books could make you feel less alone in the world. Less alone, more understood, and somehow justified for being an inquisitive, sensitive kid. I'll always be grateful to Ramona for that.

I liked the Judy Blumes I read as well, but not nearly as much. "Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing", "Superfudge", and "Blubber" were enjoyable for me, but I didn't identify as readily with the heroes of those stories. I read these after Ramona, since they were a bit more advanced, yet I couldn't help comparing them to the eponymous little sister of Cleary's creation. I wished Ramona would grow up with me and chronicle her encounters along the way, but that didn't happen. Cleary didn't write another Ramona book till 1999.

It's interesting to ruminate on these books, examining them with an adult's eye. I think all kids just want to be heard, and the adventures of Ramona are a tribute to that. A voice was given to those who typically aren't taken very seriously. But in the world of an 8-year-old, what might seem insignificant to an adult is life-changing for a child. Cleary understood this.

I remember when Ramona learned how to write her name in cursive. She would make a dramatic flourish with the Y at the end of her name, and then decorate the tip of the curve with a series of dots. Like 4th of July sparklers, she reasoned.

To this day, whenever I sign my name, I still think about doing that.