It is the place in the house, where things go to be forgotten, which I've made half-hearted attempts, to clear out things in the past. Great plans to empty the eaves of their precious cargo. My knees get squashed into an awkward position guaranteeing I will scrape my shins against the cold steel rungs. Even when I reach the top step there is yet another challenge, precariously balancing the dusty wooden hatch on my head to enter.
All this to gain access to the dark recesses of the loft, I am enthused by good decluttering intentions like some Marie Kondo groupie.
I fail, as I knew I would. Time passes as I discover musty dust-covered boxes filled with bygone trinkets, Christmas decorations, paperwork, that somehow tug at the heartstrings.
There are objects here which I cannot throw away but probably should. They have moved from house to house, unused unloved but tethered.
Somehow I knew it would still be there abandoned, one of the first books I ever longed to read.
When I was small I stared at the illustrations so hard, willing the mysterious black and white letters to be brought to life. I was read the stories at bedtime but that wasn't enough.
Before I could read the page I imagined.
I remember once bursting into tears because I was lost in a story created from my own imagination that I could not end happily ever after, it involved this elephant drawing, (below)
To me learning to read was not easy, the sounds of the letters were not fluent or easy to understand but to me seemed disjointed. Single letter sounds were joined together but the whole word was elusive, and often not apparent. The whole sentence meaning lost in individual word victories.
All this had got me thinking about my own childhood reading and writing, how much I adored the ladybird series of books. Also recalling how Peter and Jane, with their nuclear bunker family, appeared to come from another place.
Another formative reading experience for me was a monthly visit from the mobile library van. I can picture the librarian, endlessly patient as we explored its innards looking for the volume to borrow for a while. The paper adhesive label, dated stamped with a satisfying thud.
Inside the shelves were stuffed full of all sorts for the grown-ups, Nigel Tranter and Jean Plaidy's, Dorothy Dunnets, and colour coordinated Mills and Boon romance covers lined up in shelf after shelf. Large print editions, and a separate children's section, I remember Nancy Drews sleuthing tales and Hardy Boy series of mysteries, Chalet school books and Enid Blyton's adventures with lashings of ginger beer.
Patient as a saint, the librarian let us endlessly looking for that special book, the one which spoke to us, which we could keep till next time he came to visit. What a gift to give, the joy of reading. Thank you.
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