Reading was an enormous part of my childhood. My parents correctly predicted my future would be about books and writing.
First blood was the wondrous work of Enid Blyton in The Mystery of the Burnt Cottage. I immediately squirreled away pocket money to buy the rest of the series (all the while wondering why such a great crime-solving unit would name itself “The Five Find-Outers and Dog”), then graduated to the Famous Five. Blyton could write a ripping yarn, complete with lashings of teacake and ginger beer.
Almost every child I knew read The Enchanted Wood trilogy with utter joy. My children loved this series too; the Faraway Tree may well delight a future generation. I must say I had no time for Silky (the token submissive female) or The Saucepan Man (why?) but longed for Blyton to explore the psyche of Dame Washalot (one serious case of OCD) and the Angry Pixie. We were never told why the Pixie was in such a state: was it psychosis, I wondered, or just haemorrhoids?
I enjoyed Blyton’s three school series (The Naughtiest Girl, St. Clair’s and Mallory Towers) despite the repeated themes. Each featured wild lacrosse games, colicky horses and batty French teachers. I found further succour in the gripping Adventure series, but sorry, Enid - the Secret Seven never did it for me.
American authors also brought much joy into my life, notably Betty Smith's beautiful coming-of-age tale A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Madeleine L’Engle (A Wrinkle In Time), Elizabeth Enright (The Four Storey Mistake), Norton Juster (The Phantom Tollbooth) and the Trixie Belden series.
So wash my mouth out, but Australian authors held slightly less appeal, excepting two stand-out tales: Alan Marshall’s moving I Can Jump Puddles (to this day, just hearing the title makes me emotional) and Colin Thiele’s February Dragon - quintessential Australian fiction that I read as quickly as the bushfire ripped through the chapters.
I remember as a young child, my neighbour had all the Enid Blyghton books. I was so fascinated by the illistrations on the cover. My mother did not nurture my love of stories, she only bought me little golden books from the supermarket. Unfortunately I dont know what Enid Blyghtons stories are about but I'm not too old to find out now!!*locates library card*
ReplyDeleteOnly in the last decade did I finally make time to read 'The adventures of Tom Sawyer' & 'The Lion the Witch & the wardrobe'. Some of my friends laughed when I said I was reading those stories at my age but I felt I had missed out on something important during my childhood & was trying to recapture what was lost.
Although an adult, I still became most caught up in the mischievous adventures of Tom & Huck also the delightful fantasy adventures of Aslan & the Pevensie children.
There is absolutely nothing wrong with reading children's fiction at an adult age! I have been known to reread the Narnia Chronicles as well as the Faraway tree series; and if I had been of the mindset that now I am older, I shall only read adult fiction, then I would have missed out on the Harry Potter series!
ReplyDeleteSuch a great idea to have a blog on books!!
An interesting thought Catherine, about reading Blyton for the first time as an adult. Even as a child, we had to suspend a lot of belief to read them. In her stories, children had an amount of freedom unimaginable by today's standards.
ReplyDeleteIf you do read them, I'd be interested to know whether they engage you.
And as Carol says (and a very good point) - if we can embrace Harry Potter for the first time as adults, then maybe yes :0) Although Potter is more 'timeless' I think.
Carol, thank you for your kind comment.
I remember little Golden Books too :-) Did anyone here like the classics, such as Anne of Green Gables, or Pollyanna?
Re-reading children's classics should be compulsory! My approach to reading is three books on the go: a classic or children's book, contemporary writer; and trashy novel.
ReplyDeleteSome of the happiest days of childhood were the rainy days during school holidays, with Mum and Dad working, I had the house to myself reading Famous Five and Secret Seven. (+ yes I was about 7 years old, alone at home, but neighbours to visit or help and no I didn't get into trouble, I loved that solitude) My love of Enid Blyton started when my much older brother read the The Enchanted Wood trilogy at bedtime.
Other favourites were anything by Paul Gallico, Roald Dahl. Black Beauty, Little Women and Little House on the Prairie, The Cat that Walked by Himself by Rudyard Kipling. Winnie the Pooh! Still read the World of Christopher Robbin, James, James ...
What's wrong with Little Golden Books? They introduced me to Madeline and Bertha Goldfoot - two favourites.
Carol, I too reread Narnia and enjoyed it even more.
Marianne, I still have a crush on David McIntyre from I can Jump Puddles.