Tag: books

Some stories stick with us. Others help shape us. This one does both. It’s about purple-eyed girls, crisp red apples, and the first time a book made me cry. But more than anything, it’s about wonder — and why I believe stories still matter.

Have you heard of topsy-turvy tales? No, you say? Well, they’re something I don’t remember not knowing. In my life, there was the main set of topsy-turvy tales that got the fire going, the ones I helped create, and those I didn’t know existed for the longest time. And I bet there are more out there, just waiting to be discovered.

My mom was a storyteller. But before she was a storyteller — or maybe because of it — she was a reader. I don’t remember my mom reading much on her own, except for a period in the 1980s when she and one of her best friends were hooked on The Clan of the Cave Bear series. And when she was reading Mark Twain for a college class. She was always reading to me and my sister, though. Or, once we could read on our own, encouraging us to read.

Books — and the stories that serve as their foundation — were a part of my life from the beginning. I don’t know if my mom read to me when I was still tucked warm inside her body, but I suspect she did. Once I was on the outside, she read to me daily, as much as I wanted. The phrase “too much” when it came to books didn’t exist. I was in the beginning stages of my independent reading journey before I was four years old. By age six, I was devouring chapter books. 

One of the first of these was a tale my memory says was called The Underground Cats, though I can’t find it, as much as I’ve searched. Keep in mind we’re trusting the recollection of a then six-year-old child. So, there’s that. Anyway, I was fascinated by this story of the Underground Railroad told from the perspective of the cats who lived in the homes where it was operated.

I was in awe of the network of individuals who tried so hard to lift enslaved people out of a terrible situation, and appalled at the fact that this needed to happen in the first place. It was hard to imagine a world where this existed — or a world where anyone would want to harm others. Or, even still, a world where people would stand by and do nothing about it. I didn’t understand how this could happen.

My little worldview was shattered, and I wondered what else I didn’t know. And, more than anything, I wanted to know and understand it all. I quickly realized that books can show the world to you in ways you may have never imagined. The good, the bad, the beautiful, the ugly, and everything in between. Within the pages of a book were wonders waiting to be discovered. 

The elementary school I attended in the middle of nowhere Arizona spurred this love of reading by setting aside entire days when you could check out as many books as you could read that day. I was a voracious reader and would get my little bundle of books, determined to devour them all so I could get more before I went home. And what a joy that was, since there were always more books to consume. 

I read and read and read some more. There were never enough books to quench my desire to learn, to explore, to understand, to figure out the world, to see things I didn’t know existed or imagined of the future or couldn’t fathom. There was so much in the world, just waiting to be discovered. All I needed to do was open the cover of book after book, read the words inside, and turn page after page.  

Then came Stone Fox when I was around eight years old. My little sister and I shared a queen-size waterbed. I was nestled under the covers, turning the pages, completely engrossed in the story. But there came a point towards the end of the tale when I could no longer see the words on the page through my tears. My mom heard my sobs and quickly came to check on me. 

Though she hadn’t read the book, she knew what it meant to have a story affect you, and that I needed to know the end. She snuggled into the bed beside me, wrapped me in her arms, and read the rest of the story out loud since I couldn’t do it on my own. It was the first time a book — or story, for that matter — made me cry. And I think it may have been the first time I felt that kind of sadness. 

It was only shortly thereafter that the movie The NeverEnding Story was released on VHS tape. My mom and dad would take me and my sister to the video rental store, where they would rent a VHS player and let us pick out a couple of movies to watch on repeat until they had to be returned. This movie immediately captivated me. 

I wanted nothing more than to bite into a crisp, red apple and munch a peanut butter sandwich while reading a book in the attic of my school during a storm. If you know, you know. By this point, I was familiar with sadness. So, while the Swamp of Sadness caused me to shed my first movie tears, the feeling wasn’t as jarring as the first time. It was still there, but I had more lived (or read) experience.

This movie solidified in me the belief that wonder and imagination were needed in the world, and reading was a way for me to help keep it alive. Reading was my mission. It was a way that I could be a part of the neverending story. And, I fully committed to doing my part.

Since I read all the time (and this is hardly hyperbole), I needed a constant supply of books. My mom did her part by taking me to the public library weekly. Children could check out 13 books at a time, and I had no trouble meeting the limit — staying under it was another story. Once I finished my stack, I’d turn to my little sister’s and nag my mom to let us return our books early so we could get a fresh set. 

But I digress. As I mentioned at the beginning of this tale, my mom was a storyteller. 

When my sister and I were little, some of our favorite tales were topsy-turvy ones. It all began with a Golden Look-Look Book of the same name — A Topsy-Turvy Tale. In this story, all sorts of seemingly impossible things happen, including children wearing football uniforms instead of pajamas and flying instead of taking the stairs. My sister and I would fall into fits of laughter as these silly words fell out of our mother’s mouth.

Even better, the story wasn’t finished when the last page was turned and the cover was closed. We’d say, “Tell us another topsy-turvy tale, Mommy.” And she’d humor us until we fell asleep or tired of the tale, with the latter rarely happening.

”Once upon a time,” she’d say, “there were two little girls with purple eyes.” 

We’d gasp and say, “Little girls don’t have purple eyes, Mommy!” 

“Well, what color eyes do they have?” she’d respond. 

And we’d say blue, or brown, or hazel, or green, listing off the colors we’d seen.

”You never know, someone we haven’t met might have purple eyes,” she’d say, and continue the story. If it was just too far-fetched for even our imaginations, she’d change the story into something a little more believable and keep going.

”In our tale, the little girls have purple eyes that perfectly match the color of their cat’s feathers,” she’d continue. We would burst into fits of giggles and she’d change the feathers to fur — just enough of a change to make it believable. 

And on and on it would go. Back and forth it went as we helped her weave an ever more wonderful topsy-turvy tale of our own making. 

Some nights it wouldn’t be a topsy-turvy tale but a story of a different kind. She’d turn a well-known nursery rhyme or fairy tale into one of her own creation, or have us give her a word or idea, and build a story on what we shared. You could say that she had a way with words. A way of turning even the most mundane of them into something magical and new. She was a natural storyteller.

In the worlds my mother built, little girls could have purple eyes and cats purple fur if the tale was spun just so. With just a sprinkle of fairy dust, we’d believe it could be. 

And isn’t that the way of the world? Imagine if nobody dared dream of what they had not seen or tried what they thought was impossible. We wouldn’t have fire and wheels and lightbulbs and planes. Doc would have never told Marty, “Where we’re going, we don’t need roads.” And we might not even have roads, anyway. 

As a child, my curiosity and sense of wonder were near limitless, as was my need to create and play and explore. With adulthood comes adult realities, and it can be easy to lose sight of these, what some may say, childish things. But, we need them. I need them. I’m who I was meant to be when I hold tight to these childish things. I was made to create. We were all made to create.

The world can be an even better place when we take time to imagine what could be and play an active role in the neverending story of this topsy-turvy place we call home.