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Growing up, my sister was a reading prodigy, mastering the skill at just four years old. My parents couldn’t stop bragging about how she effortlessly picked up a book and began reading. I was so tired of hearing that story that I would leave the room every time it came up.
On the other hand, I struggled significantly. It wasn’t until much later that I realized I had dyslexia. I dreaded reading aloud, found it difficult to sound out longer words, and often mixed up letters when writing. Even now, when I encounter a long word with more than two syllables, my mind tends to wander.
While my friends sailed through their reading assignments, I stuttered and stumbled. Learning new skills, like knitting, still feels backward to me — 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 was engaged with a book that wasn’t a graphic novel. The overwhelming feeling I usually had when reading began to fade.
My sister had a complete set of Beverly Cleary’s books, perfectly lined up on her shelf — the only tidy part of our shared bedroom. I wasn’t allowed to touch them, and she had accumulated that impressive collection over the years.
Sneaking that first book opened up a new world for me. Suddenly, I wanted to read all of Cleary’s works. Instead of pilfering from my sister’s collection, I started borrowing my own copies from the local library, which had an even larger selection. Those weekly library trips became exciting adventures.
There was something comforting about those colorful covers and the cheerful titles. Reading about Ramona and her family dynamics made me feel as if I were part of their world. I began to experience emotions tied to the story, which was a new and thrilling sensation for me.
For months, I hesitated to explore other authors, worried they wouldn’t measure up to Beverly Cleary. I cherished the moments spent reading “Ramona Quimby, Age 8,” often retreating to our hammock while my younger sisters clamored to help make applesauce from fallen apples. Leaving my book felt like a loss.
I’ve often pondered how my life would have unfolded if I hadn’t stumbled upon a Beverly Cleary book. Would I have embraced reading without her influence? The constant reminders from teachers about my reading struggles had started to sink in, and I began to believe I was incapable.
What if I hadn’t dared to defy my sister and borrow “Ramona Quimby, Age 8” that fateful Saturday afternoon? Would another author have sparked my love for reading in the same way?
Cleary’s works ignited a passion within me. They were enjoyable, relatable, and uncomplicated. Realizing this made me think that perhaps I could write too — I loved sharing stories, so why not put them on paper?
When I learned of Cleary’s passing, it felt like a punch to the gut. It brought back memories and made me reflect on how profoundly her books shaped my life. She may be gone, but the impact of her writing will forever resonate with her readers. I know I’m just one of many who owe a debt of gratitude to her legacy.
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Summary
In summary, Beverly Cleary’s books transformed my reading experience as a late reader. Her relatable characters and engaging stories not only helped me overcome my struggles with reading but also inspired me to pursue writing. Cleary’s legacy continues to impact countless readers, and her contributions to literature are invaluable.