Growing up, my sister was the shining star of reading. She could decipher words at just four years old, and my parents often reminisced about that magical moment when she picked up a book and began to read. It became a tale I dreaded, one I would leave the room to escape.
While my sister soared through reading, I struggled deeply, not realizing until later that I had dyslexia. Reading aloud filled me with anxiety; longer words felt like insurmountable obstacles, and I often found myself reading and writing in reverse. Even now, if I encounter a lengthy word, my mind tends to drift after a few syllables.
As I watched my peers breeze through books, I felt an overwhelming sense of frustration. Even when I learned new skills, like knitting, I often did it backwards, a testament to how my mind worked.
Everything changed when I stumbled upon Beverly Cleary’s “Ramona Quimby, Age 8” in the middle of second grade. For the first time, I was reading a chapter book, and it felt manageable. I remember sneaking that book from my sister’s meticulously organized shelf, her collection of Cleary’s works seeming infinite and untouchable.
After devouring “Ramona,” I became eager to explore more of Cleary’s stories. Instead of borrowing from my sister, I discovered an even larger selection at our local library, transforming our weekly visits into thrilling adventures. I savored reading in peace, free from the fear of my sibling snatching the book away.
The bright covers and playful titles of Cleary’s books instantly made me feel at home. The relatable tales of Ramona’s life and her relationships enveloped me; I felt as if I were a part of their world. While Ramona could be exasperating, I found myself experiencing emotions through the text, a feeling I had never encountered before. It was a much-needed escape.
For months, I hesitated to read anything else, worried that no other author could match the joy I found in Cleary’s works. I cherished the moments spent in our hammock, engrossed in her tales while my younger sisters busied themselves with chores.
I often ponder whether I would have embraced reading without Beverly Cleary’s influence. If I hadn’t picked up her book that fateful afternoon while my sister entertained a friend, would I have missed out on the magic of literature altogether? Would another writer have sparked that same passion within me?
Cleary’s stories illuminated a path for me, showcasing that books could be relatable, entertaining, and straightforward. This realization sparked my desire to write, as I had always loved storytelling and conversing.
The news of Cleary’s passing felt like a personal loss, prompting reflections on the profound impact her books had on my life. Though she has left this world, her literary gifts will forever resonate with readers. I know I’m just one of countless individuals whose lives she touched.
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Summary:
Beverly Cleary’s books were a turning point in my life as a late reader. They provided an escape, ignited my passion for reading, and inspired me to write. Without her stories, I often wonder if I would have ever embraced literature at all. Her legacy is invaluable, and her influence will always be felt.