The Salvation of Illustrations

My first memory of reading a story was looking at the pictures in books.  I'd get up on a warm lap of a sister, on the pew with the chilly wall behind it.  I'd read the picture, dulling the reader's voice and creating a narration of my own. I have four older sisters and can imagine any one of them taking the time to read aloud to a pesky, freckle-faced little sister.  

I vividly remember the weird pictures of the naked butts of the little people in The Elves and the Shoemaker.  The boat floating in the clouds in the rhyme Winkin, Blinkin and Nod.  I also remember the young, black boy stepping in the pies on the step on the back porch. 

The books they often read from were the dark, thick, red children anthology books. They had thick, embossed pictures on the cover. There were few pictures except in the nursery rhymes.  So pages didn't get turned much.  

Inside Cover of Book Trails

I remember the Dick and Jane series of readers I learned to read from in grade school.  I'm sure I wasn't the only student flipping ahead to the more interesting pictures when we read the easier stories over and over and over.  It was painful to wait for the next story.  No wonder I started to imagine my own at such a young age.  Mother Mathias was too vigilant for me to be able to let my mind wander by looking out the window.  When I saw another student gets whacked on the head for not paying attention, I learned to keep my face in the book.

I remember walking to the county library downtown in St. Ignace and thinking the courthouse building was very huge and frightening.  The steps were very wide and steep with no railing.  The doors were terribly heavy and thick.  The hall leading to the library was dark with a high echoey ceiling. The voices coming from the other offices in the building were adult and serious to me.  I couldn't wait to open the next heavy door that led to the library.    The librarian's desk was right at the entrance as I walked in.  She'd look up without a word or any movement of her head.  She didn't have to say anything.  Her eyes shouted, "Be quiet in here.  Don't touch anything that isn't in the children's section.  Watch where you put back the books you take out.  Be quiet.  Don't ask any questions.  I'm busy."  

I had to walk past the pedestal with the enormous dictionary to get to the books I was allowed to touch. I so dearly wanted to reach up and turn the pages on the obviously champion book with a stand of its own.  I knew better.  I just glanced at it as I went by, trying to keep my footsteps light on the loud tile floor.  The small collection of children's books were at the very back corner by the tall windows facing the lake.  

The draped newspapers seemed to fascinate me, too.  I didn't understand how anyone could read the papers sideways like that.  They looked like they were hanging out to dry on their neat little rods.  I never saw anyone looking at them.  In fact, I rarely saw more than one other person in the library when I was there, unless I was with a brother or a friend.

There were no soft pillows on the floor, short tables with chairs, bins of books, stuff animal characters, or rows and rows of books to choose from.  Only a few shelves, if my memory serves me.  I never left without a book.  I would have felt very strange walking past the desk of the librarian and out the doors without something.  She must have realized I'd pick the same book over and over.  Now I know she must have known I had trouble finding a book I liked.  When I stopped at her desk she'd pull the card out of the envelope in the back of the book and have me sign it.  She'd stamp it and stamp the book before closing it and handing it to me.  (I  realize now being judged isn't just reserved for adulthood)

As I got older I remember reading Nancy Drew.  The covers were dull looking, but they kept my interest until they became predictable and I quit reading them.  

I recently read Rebecca Steads acknowledgments in When You Reach Me,  "Every writer stands on the shoulders of many other writers."   It got me thinking.  If I were to thank the people on whose shoulders I stand now I'd have to include the illustrators.  The pictures kept me sane as a child.  They allowed a path for me to take into another world when the world of words was not enough.  There weren't the photographs in the children's fictional books like there is now.  The illustrations were my salvation.  They gave me the words I longed for.  

When I empty my storage unit to move and wonder why I have more boxes of books than anything else, I'll remind myself why.  I love books.  When I read and stop to stare out the window I know it's a part of my reading process.  My way of going to those wonderful illustrated places that aren't on the page.

Books Titles: 

Epaminondas and His Auntie, Bryant, Sara.  (story of stepping in the pies)

Book Trails; For Baby Feet,  (Vol. I) Anthology, Stern, Renee B.

Dick and Jane Basal Readers, Gray, William, Sharp, Zerna 

Nancy Drew Mysteries, Keene, Carolyn