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My sister was reading by the age of four, a feat my parents often bragged about to friends, recounting the moment she simply picked up a book and read. I grew tired of hearing that story and would leave the room whenever it came up.
In contrast, I faced my own struggles with reading, likely due to undiagnosed dyslexia. Reading aloud was a nightmare for me; I found it challenging to sound out words, especially longer ones, and I often reversed letters when writing. Even today, long words can make my mind wander.
While my friends seemed to breeze through reading, I stuttered and stumbled. Learning new skills, like knitting, often involved me doing things in reverse — it’s just how my brain operates.
Everything changed when I discovered Beverly Cleary’s “Ramona Quimby, Age 8.” This was well into my second-grade year, and for the first time, I connected with a book that wasn’t a graphic novel. I remember skimming over some words, but it didn’t overwhelm me.
My sister had an impressive collection of Beverly Cleary’s books, neatly arranged on her shelf — the only tidy part of our shared room. I wasn’t allowed to touch them, having watched her treasure this collection for years.
After sneaking a read of that first book, I looked at my sister’s bookshelf differently. I wanted to explore all of Cleary’s works, so I began checking them out from the library, where the selection was even more extensive. Our weekly library trips became something I eagerly anticipated.
Reading became more enjoyable without the fear of my sister snatching a book from my hands while I hid under the sheets with a flashlight.
The colorful covers and playful titles of Cleary’s books felt inviting. I resonated with Ramona and her experiences — her relationships with her father, Beezus, and her mother — and I felt like I was part of their world.
There were moments when Ramona’s antics annoyed me, but I realized these stories evoked emotions I had never felt while reading before. It became a form of escape for me.
That feeling hooked me. It took months before I dared to read another author, afraid that no one else could captivate me like Beverly Cleary did. I cherished the moments spent reading in the hammock while my younger sisters begged me to help make applesauce from the fallen fruit.
I often wonder: if I hadn’t picked up a Beverly Cleary book, would I have ever embraced reading? It’s disheartening to hear teachers point out poor reading skills repeatedly; it can make anyone doubt themselves. What if I had missed her iconic books? What if I hadn’t dared to defy my sister that boring Saturday afternoon to take “Ramona Quimby, Age 8” off the shelf? Would another author have inspired me the way Cleary did?
Her stories were not just entertaining; they were relatable and straightforward. They ignited a spark in me, making me think perhaps I could write as well. I loved to tell stories, so why not put them on paper?
When I learned of Cleary’s passing, it felt like a deep loss. It made me reflect on how different my life might have been without her stories.
Though she may no longer be with us, her literary gifts will continue to live on. The impact she made on my life is priceless, and I know many others share this sentiment.
If you’re interested in exploring more about the journey of reading or parenting tips, check out this post or this resource on home insemination. For more insights into self-insemination, this site is a great authority on the topic.
Summary
This article reflects on how Beverly Cleary’s books profoundly impacted the author’s journey as a late reader. Despite struggling with dyslexia and feeling overshadowed by a reading-savvy sister, Cleary’s relatable stories became a turning point, inspiring a love for reading and writing. The author acknowledges Cleary’s lasting influence and the emotions her work evoked.
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