Conceal a Knot as you Would a Secret

Beverly Cleary and Me

I couldn’t take official dance pictures without my little brother needing to be in at least one :) (and I secretly loved it)

I was thinking to myself this week, as I often do, “when did I give up on reading?” It dawned on me, as a little girl in the U.S. with only my parents and my nana, that I loved books. I read all the time in elementary school. In fact, I read so much that by the fifth grade, I too, was out of books to read. You see, after all these years thinking that I was nothing like my only daughter Brynn, I often tell the story of the librarian calling me to schedule an after-school appointment so that we could chat about Brynn’s reading.

I sat down in a small chair at a small table, opposite the librarian.

“I’ve asked you to meet with me today as it seems Brynn has read everything age-appropriate in our library and she is re-reading the same books. Sooo… I’ve selected a few books from the fifth grade section… I know she’s in fourth grade, but I wanted you to go over them so that she has something new to read.”

First of all, I was speechless. Smiling, “wow, my daughter has run out of things to read?” then I thought, “what a sweet librarian to notice my child,” and then I began to look at the new books presented in front of me. Mind you, this was a public elementary school in a low to average-income area in California. It was 1999 and Brynn was nine.

As I looked through the books, the librarian said, with some reservation, “there might be some relationship innuendos that are more mature. I didn’t want to recommend them to her without your approval.”

Of course it’s 2023 now and I do not have our conversation verbatum, however, it definitely went like that.

I approved them, went home with my youngest, most theatrically delightful three year old son, (the one that I begged for for five years), and remembered fondly how I was at Brynn’s age. It had been forever since I had the time or took the time to read. Motherhood and a more than full-time working husband left me with a brain zap most evenings as I cleaned up dinner, folded laundry, and fell into bed before the five a.m. wake-up call. My mind was on juggling three balls 24/7.

As I grew up and through motherhood I became increasingly visual and eventually started working as a professional photographer, filling any reading time with photo culling into the late hours.

So, today, I remember my favorite author. My best friend from the playground to the couch, as I walked down the hallway for dinner and lying in my bed before the lights went out. Her name was Beverly Cleary and I loved everything she wrote and probably re-read a few.

“Beezus and Ramona” was the first book I read. Beverly Cleary had a way with words and descriptions that made my childhood seem as real as I thought it was. My little brother was definitely the “Ramona” in my life. Being six years older, I was the one trying to keep a sense of responsibility, like a self-elected second mom, while secretly enjoying his boundless antics. Deep down I carried a wild sense of humour and enjoyed the freedom that he expressed as I dutifully obeyed every adult command around me. It dawned on me that Brynn too, was six years older than her little brother and was patiently the exact same way.

Reading this book gave me permission to be a child. I was hooked.

I don’t know if Beverly Cleary is more a legend for her contribution to children’s literature or for the fact that she lived to be 104! All I know is that she really understood children. Well meaning, rambunctious, busy, often unruly, yet delightful children.

Growing up on farm in Yamhill, Oregon, with a present day population of 1,147 at the 2020 census, there was no library. Today, there is only a “research library.” Beverly’s mother was the self-appointed librarian for the town and arranged to have books sent from the State Library. When Beverly’s family moved to Portland she was put into the school’s low reading category. By third grade she found herself excelling in reading and surrounded herself with books.

At such a young age, the school librarian suggested Beverly become a children’s author when she grew up! Like the clothes I wanted my mom to sew, because I couldn’t find anything that felt like me, as Beverly grew into adulthood, she eventually began to write books that she couldn’t find on the shelves. Funny stories gathered from her neighborhood and the kids she grew up with.

The path that a sweet librarian would place Beverly on lead to more than 91 million copies of her books, sold in 29 languages. The majority of Cleary’s books are written for six to 12 year olds, with a smaller series for teens. This would earn her several book awards including the National Book Award in 1981 for Ramona and Her Mother, a Newberry Medal for Dear Mr. Henshaw, and other Newberry nominations.

Ms. Cleary left a legacy that will hopefully live on for many generations to come.

What I find so amazing about this story and my recently unwrapped love of reading and writing is how I am finding a greater understanding.

I have long admired my only daughter. Her quiet wit, love of reading, determination, ridiculous math skills, and so much more. Never thinking for a minute she was anything like me, I have discovered just how much we were alike. I, more outwardly expressive, her keeping much to herself, we had very similar childhoods and I see her raising our grandchildren in a familiar way. Our opinions are often opposite, yet we are not that different. I have zero math skills, yet I, like her, have taken what God has given me and used it to the best of my purpose. Brynn, has a mind for math and science, yet deep down has my love of words, music, art and the ability to love deeply… to the point of hurting greatly. I wear my heart on my sleeve.. she more like her dad, a force of aging is upon me where I am learning to see what I cannot see standing right in front of me.

A gentle, graceful gift from God, like the best friend I was searching for and found in these endearing books. My days, as an immigrant child, were not as common as those around me. I always knew I was different just by what we ate and how we spoke. I had to get past the shy quiet reader and reach out to the new world. It didn’t come naturally. By the time I was eight years old, just before I found Beverly Cleary, my mom signed me up for dance classes, “to bring me out of my extreme shyness.”

I have a dress I am trying to hem. As I sit on my bed, contently concealing a knot in the sewing thread (like Beezus), I am reminded of who I was and who I became, with the understanding that often our life circumstances can change us. I have no regrets for losing Debbie along the way, or becoming a happy Chatty Patty, trying to reach beyond the limits of my tiny family.

It’s just so good to find that little girl again.

Like a secret… I am here.