There’s a defining moment in the life of every book lover, a perfect intersection in time when an author’s wordweaving meets a reader’s imagination. Books are transformed from words on a page, to complete worlds. I am sure that my love affair with the written word began long before 1981, but it was in the honeysuckled nights of April, in the year that I was seven, when I first met Tabitha, Sarah, and all the cats.
Just a little girl with a book on tape, I had no idea that a simple childrens’ story would gift me a lifetime of knowledge, new people, and interesting places, but “House of Thirty Cats”, now likely gathering dust on long-forgotten library shelves, was my passageway into a world of books.
I slid through the pages, leaving behind the smell of frying French fries, the feel of shag carpet, and the sounscape of early 80’s television theme songs in my small trailer house, emerging into sunny door yards with fluffy green grass and old lady houses softly scented with age, magnolia, and lemon poundcake. I could feel the soft belly fur of chubby mischievous gray kittens. I could hear the purr of graceful dainty mother cats. Imperial aging toms and spiteful murderous black cats were brought to life with such clarity that my play room was transformed into another world. I lived that book, and it was magic!
Mary Calhoun’s story of a lonely old lady, an average little girl, and the unlikely friendship that developed through their love of cats is one that captivated my seventh summer, and catapulted me into a love of all things written. The book was on my alltime childhood favorites list, and for many years, I wanted to reread it, but i never would, for fear that all the mysterious wonder of it would disappear under the scrutiny of adulthood.
Last year, I took the chance, and recaptured not only the magic of the story, but also the reason I began to love reading in the first place. I realized, I hadn’t lost anything, but only forgot it a little. My youth, my imagination, my optimism, all my old friends were there, just waiting for me to revisit them, and maybe bring along some wisdom and appreciation for the fragile beauty of such things. For those who believe that reading is fanciful, and writing means little in the way of contributions to the world, I can only tell you that my love of reading was shaped by this little childrens’ tale, and that my love of reading led to a desire to learn, and that the desire to learn led to good grades, and that good grades led to self-confidence and a college degree, and that the college degree led to an even greater love of reading, which led to a love of writing . . . and who knows where that may lead.
And it all started with one little book.
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