As
a writer, one of the best tools to hone my writing and editing abilities is to
read. As a little girl, I couldn’t stand
to read. Where others found that words
and phrases easily flowed into one another, I struggled to sound out words,
which ruined their intended flow. What I
ended up with was a clunky, disjointed rambling of words that made little
sense. Just to get that from my reading was a huge effort.
It
wasn’t until I was ten that I fell in love with reading. My stepfather, aware of my difficulties with
reading, came into my bedroom one Saturday morning, holding a copy of a book,
the title of which I couldn’t see. He
suggested I read the book, believing that I’d fall in love with the action,
intense storyline and raw human qualities of the characters. At first, I was going to resist, but then I
saw the sincere look on his face.
My
stepfather knew me probably better than anyone.
He was aware of what things would excite a level of unbridled enthusiasm
in me. And when I looked into his eyes,
his hand outreached, offering me the book, I saw that he didn’t just think this particular book would excite
me. He knew it would.
The
book he offered was The Cay, written
by Theodore Taylor. Where once I thought
to resist, a warm acceptance made me smile, and I took the offered book. My stepfather told me he hoped I’d enjoy it
and then left my room.
When
my stepfather had entered the room, I’d been sitting in my beanbag chair, my
legs crossed under me, buried in the depths of the chair. That was the position I remained in as I
opened the book and began reading. From
the very first page, I was mesmerized.
As my stepfather had predicted, the action, intense storyline and raw human
qualities of the characters whisked me away to another world.
It
was through those written words that a magical thing happened. No longer was I clumsy with trying to sound
out words. In fact, there were very few
that I wasn’t able to read straight off and have flow together into a wonderful
woven tapestry of complete comprehension.
Hours
passed. I flipped page after page,
reading faster than ever before and with an insatiable appetite. Words flowed easily, my brain processing
them—completely. Characters came
alive. I related to their anguish and
cheered them on to overcome their prejudices so they could work together to
make it safely to the other side of their trials.
Lunchtime
came and went. I didn’t eat. The only nourishment I needed was to continue
digesting the words I read. Dinnertime
arrived and with it I was required to abandon my reading to join the family to
eat. Trying to extricate myself form my
beanbag chair proved a chore, for my legs had not only grown stiff from being
in the same awkward position for hours on end, but had also gone numb. With pins and needles shooting their way
through them, sending electrifying messages that I should really think to move
my legs more often, I made my way in to join the others for dinner,
One
look at my face and my stepfather knew the amazing gift of reading he’d given
me. He watched me wolf down my food and
wash the dinner dishes with my sister in utter silence, my mind playing over
the incredible world I’d been made privy to through the pages of The Cay.
Finishing
the dishes, I bolted back to my bedroom and resumed my leg-numbing position in
my beanbag chair—my favorite way to sit in it.
I was delighted with the progress I’d made in the book. By then, I’d read more than three quarters of
it. With renewed enthusiasm and a
determination not to be outdone, I dove into those remaining pages, confident
that I’d finish The Cay before my
bedtime arrived.
I
did. With a half hour to spare, I again
unfolded my legs with the greatest care, from my chair and headed out to find
my stepfather, book in hand. I found him
in the family room, watching TV. Hearing
me approach, he looked up. The moment he saw me, his face broke into a broad
grin that melted my heart.
I
hurried to him, stammering and stumbling over my words as they attempted to out
do one another in a rush of enthusiasm.
With my eyes beaming, heart pounding and mind racing, I attempted to
express to my stepfather how awesome the book had been. How I was thrilled I’d finished it…and in one
sitting. I’d never done that
before. With great patience and deep
appreciation, my stepfather sat and listened to me. And when I tried to give the book back to
him, he pushed it back towards me and said, “Keep it. You earned it!”
I
still have that book—one of my favorites, to this day! It sits proudly on the top shelf of one of my
bookcases. Every now and again, I take
it off that shelf and flip through the pages, marveling over what an incredible
gift of reading my stepfather offered me.
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