My sister was reading by the age of four, and my parents couldn’t stop talking about it. They would tell everyone how she just picked up a book and began reading one day. I was so tired of hearing that story that I would leave the room whenever it came up.
In contrast, I struggled significantly with reading. Looking back, I realize I likely had dyslexia. I despised reading aloud, struggled to sound out lengthy words, and often wrote things backwards. Even now, when I see a long word, I can zone out after just two syllables.
While my friends breezed through their reading assignments, I stumbled and stuttered. Learning new skills, like knitting, often felt backwards for me, a reflection of how my brain operates.
It was only after I picked up Beverly Cleary’s book “Ramona Quimby, Age 8” that I began to understand reading, and this happened halfway through second grade. I remember skimming some words, but for the first time, I was reading something that wasn’t a graphic novel, and it didn’t overwhelm me.
My sister’s collection of Beverly Cleary books sat neatly on her bookshelf—the only tidy spot in our shared room—and I wasn’t allowed to touch them. She had amassed a seemingly endless collection over the years.
After sneaking to read that first book, I viewed her bookshelf differently. I craved to read all of Cleary’s works, and I did! Instead of borrowing from my sister, I discovered the library in our town, which offered an even larger selection than her collection, making our weekly visits exciting.
Reading felt so much more enjoyable now that I didn’t have to hide under my sheets with a flashlight, fearing my sister would snatch her book from me.
There was something comforting about those colorful covers and bold titles. Through the pages, I connected with Ramona and her relationships—with her dad, Beezus, and her mother. I felt like I was right there in the story with them.
Though Ramona could be quite frustrating at times, I realized these books were evoking emotions in me that I had never experienced before. They provided an escape I had been longing for.
That was the moment I was hooked. I hesitated before picking up another author’s work, fearing they wouldn’t compare to Beverly Cleary. I was also scared of losing that feeling I got while reading on our hammock, all while my younger sisters begged me to help with applesauce from fallen apples in our yard. Leaving my book was not something I wanted to do.
Sometimes I ponder: Would I have ever become a reader if I hadn’t discovered Beverly Cleary? Hearing from teachers about my poor reading and comprehension skills can wear down your confidence. What if I hadn’t picked up one of her iconic books? Would another author have sparked my love for reading like she did?
Beverly Cleary’s writing did more than entertain me; it opened doors for my own creativity. Her stories were relatable, consistent, and simple, making me realize that perhaps I could write too. I loved storytelling, so why not put it on paper?
When I heard about Cleary’s passing, it felt like a stab in the heart. It made me reflect on how different my life might have been without her books. Though she is no longer with us, the gifts of her storytelling will always remain. The impact she had on my life is priceless.
Beverly Cleary changed my life without me even realizing it at the time, and I know I’m just one of the millions who feel the same way.
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Summary:
Beverly Cleary’s books played a pivotal role in my journey as a late reader. Her relatable characters and engaging stories not only helped me overcome my reading struggles but also ignited my passion for storytelling. Reflecting on her influence, I am grateful for the profound impact she has had on my life and the lives of countless others.
Keyphrase: Beverly Cleary as a late reader
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