Growing up, my sister was reading by the age of four, a fact my parents proudly shared with anyone who would listen. I grew tired of hearing the same story over and over that I would leave the room in frustration. Meanwhile, I was struggling with reading, not fully aware at the time that I had dyslexia. Reading aloud filled me with dread; I could barely sound out longer words and often found myself reversing letters and words. Even now, when I face a lengthy word, I tend to zone out after a couple of syllables.
While my friends effortlessly breezed through their reading tasks, I was left stuttering. It was challenging for me, and even to this day, I often learn new skills, like knitting, in reverse. That’s just how my mind operates.
It wasn’t until I stumbled upon Beverly Cleary’s “Ramona Quimby, Age 8” during the second half of my second-grade year that I started to understand reading. I remember skimming over some words, but for the first time, I wasn’t buried in a graphic novel, and it didn’t feel as daunting.
My sister had a pristine collection of Beverly Cleary’s books lining her bookshelf, the only tidy part of our shared room. I wasn’t allowed to touch them since she had amassed that collection over the years.
After sneaking a read of “Ramona Quimby, Age 8,” I looked at my sister’s bookshelf with newfound excitement. I wanted to explore all of Cleary’s works, and I did just that, checking out my own copies from the library in our town—where the selection was much more extensive than my sister’s.
Reading became much more enjoyable when I wasn’t hiding under the sheets with a flashlight, fearing my sister would snatch the book from my hands.
There was something comforting about those colorful covers and bubbly titles that felt like home. As I read about Ramona and her relatable relationships—with her dad, Beezus, and her mother—I felt transported into their world.
I’ll admit, there were times when Ramona could be frustrating, but I soon realized that Cleary’s books were eliciting emotions in me that I’d never experienced before. They provided an escape, and that was the hook that kept me coming back.
For months, I hesitated to read anything else, fearing that other authors would not live up to the magic of Beverly Cleary’s words. I cherished those moments reading in the hammock while my younger sisters begged me to help them make applesauce from fallen apples. I hated leaving those stories behind.
I often wonder how my life would have unfolded if I hadn’t discovered a Beverly Cleary book. After hearing from teachers about my poor reading skills, it would have been easy to lose confidence. What if I had never dared to take “Ramona Quimby, Age 8” off the shelf that day when I was bored? Would another author have sparked my passion for reading the way Cleary did?
Reading her books ignited a realization within me: they were entertaining, relatable, and simple. These qualities led me to believe that I could write too—after all, I loved to talk and share stories, so surely I could put those thoughts onto paper.
When I heard about Cleary’s passing, it felt like a personal loss. It took me back to the moments I spent in her stories and made me reflect on what my life would have been like without her influence.
Though she may no longer be with us, the gifts she imparted through her writing will always remain in our hearts. Truly, her impact on my life—and on the lives of millions—cannot be measured.
For more reflections on similar topics, check out this other blog post. And if you’re interested in home insemination, Make a Mom is a great resource.
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