A few weeks ago, when Beverly Cleary died, I was unexpectedly sad.
To be frank, I was kind of astonished at first. In my head, she was roughly my father-i11n-law's age, born in the late 40s or early 50s, hitting her writing stride in the 70s. Finding out that she was born before women could even vote? It was a little mind-boggling.
Then, after the shock of her age wore off, that's when I was sad. Because, even though I forget sometimes, her work had a huge impact on me as a reader.
I only read two of her books that I remember reading, neither one being part of the Quimby-verse. Maybe I read one of the Ralph books, maybe.
The ones I do know I've read, in an amusing way, really tell you all you need to know about my personality:
- Socks - cats
- Dear Mr. Henshaw - wanting to be a writer
Socks was a class book we read in 3rd grade. We were assigned to read a few pages that first night. I devoured it and read it all in one night. It's one of my vivid reading memories, finishing this passed-around copy under the yellow glow of my lamp. It wasn't the first chapter book I'd read, but it was definitely one that stuck with me -- an experience that defined how I saw myself: a reader lost in the pages of a book.
I read Dear Mr. Henshaw the next year on my own. It stuck with me so much that I still remembered the poem Leigh wrote at the end of one of his early letters:
De Liver
De Letter
De Sooner
De Better
De Later
De Letter
De Madder
I Getter
It's a poem I think of a lot. Especially if I'm writing out/typing the word "deliver"...
I also really connected with Leigh as a kid -- I wanted to write. Heck, I still do.
I hadn't read either book in roughly 20 years. I'd found a copy of Dear Mr. Henshaw last week at a local used bookstore, but I had to get Socks at Barnes & Noble. I had bought it today, not even realizing until when I started this post, looking to see exactly when she'd been born, that I saw TODAY would have been her 105th birthday.
Which, weird. Very, very weird.
I read them both today, because while my brain has become mush throughout this pandemic, I can still speed through these like I did as a 9-year-old. Maybe a smidge faster.
It was surprising at how much I had retained of the Socks plotline. All the major points, I had remembered. I was more surprised at all the things I had forgotten from Dear Mr. Henshaw. Reading it now was a glimpse into the hope I once had about being a writer. It also was a reminder that some things take time, and you have to work on them for things to get better and actually change.
Beverly didn't publish her first book until she was 34. So there's hope for me yet.