The Boxcar Children Were My Friends

When I was a little girl my books were my friends. We lived in the country in the the 40's and 50's. There were no siblings close to my age. My sister was much older and my brother was four years younger. I didn't care for dolls which was a good thing because there was no money for such things. Of course, no video games that the children have to occupy their time nowadays.
I can remember getting my library card when I was seven years old. I think I may have it somewhere even now. (I found it!)
That library card was to me like a drivers license is to a teenager. I can vividly remember "signing" my name to that precious card. I felt so very grownup. It was the key to so many things. I could see new places, do new things. I could experience other little girls pain and cold and hardships. I could try to solve mysteries. I can remember laughing and crying. I hated for a book to end. I would tell my mom about the books that I read. I even used them as an excuse to stay up later than my bedtime with something like, "Can I just finish this chapter, then I will go to bed."
 I could use my imagination to the fullest every single time I held a book in my lap. I can remember an almost jittery feeling when I opened up the brand new Little House On The Prairie books. I was one of the very first to read them. I can see them in my mind's eye to this day. They even smelled and felt new. The pages were slick and the covers were shiny.
I can remember reading Heidi for the first time. I asked my mama so many questions about pronunciation and meaning of words. She finally said, "You need to go get your tablet
 and write the words down that you don't know. Then use the dictionary that your dad has. Well, that wasn't my favorite thing to do. My penmanship was not one of my talents. It was time consuming. I was short on the virtue of patience in those days. When I wanted an answer I wanted it now! I complained to my mother, but she persisted and told me I would thank her someday.
 I laugh to myself now that my children and most of my grandchildren are grown. The only thing I thank her for in that department is the opportunity to read as many books as the library would allow which was seven. My parents went to town twice a week. Sunday of course, for church. The other day was either Friday or Saturday.
 The librarian told my mother that other children my age liked to read also and many wanted the same books I read so I had to learn to share with strangers at a very early age. Sharing also, was not in my top ten of things I was willing to do without a stern face from my mother.
When my children were small and even before they were born I told them stories I made up. When they were older they always had a book to read.
The other day I was visiting with a friend and referred to the Boxcar children books that I had read as a child. She said, "Oh, I loved them too!" For a few days I thought about those books. I even looked them up on line. Like most things in my childhood they are listed as "vintage." Hmm. Just the other day I stopped at the library and asked if they had those Boxcar children books. He just looked at me. I said, "They are vintage. I read them as a child." He smiled and said, "Let me look on the computer and I will check to see if we have them." He brought me a CD. Yes he did. I gave him the same look as my mother gave me. He said, "I will check to see if we have them in books as well." Long story short they did have them. I was disappointed to say the least because I could remember the book covers from all those years ago. These books had shiny new covers. They also had a bar code printed on the cover. My librarian in Cherokee, Iowa where I grew up was Mrs. Irene Leeds. She knew every book, every location and for that matter most of the children as well as their parents.
When we got home from town, I sat down in my easy chair and looked at this shiny new book with some trepidation. I didn't want this book to change. I wanted the same little book that I had loved over sixty-five years ago. I opened it up and there it was. My little Boxcar Children book in all it's glory. The pages were soft and colored a light brown with age. They were older than me. I was born in 1944 it was born in 1942. I was in Heaven. As I read I got a lump in my throat.  They assumed their grandfather was mean and evil. They lived on the run. They walked at night so they couldn't be seen and slept at night.
They washed dishes with sand and cold water. I can remember doing that while camping. They used a board for a shelf that was propped on bricks. I did that. They used dishes that they found in a dump and washed and used. I didn't do that, but my dishes didn't match and had some cracks just like little Ben. He loved his "dear pink cup." Oh they just loved their boxcar that they had found. It was old and rusty and overgrown with weeds. It was their home and they loved it.
I guess what I am saying is take your children to story time when they are little. I know and see that a lot of you are. Teach them to know how precious books are. They are your friends when you are all alone. They are there when there is no television. They are always there when others are gone. Maybe, just maybe when they are old they will have fond memories of their favorite books like I do.