There's just something about the childhood stories. They have been on my mind lately; maybe it has a little bit to do with the thawing of everything. It's slowly becoming spring. But thoughts of the books I read, or were read to me growing up are always present.
I think that these stories stick with us for a reason. It's the nostalgia, of course. They gave us comfort, fueled our young imaginations, propelled us into a world where nothing was impossible.
When we were kids, we used to spend part of every summer at my grandma's house in New Hampshire. My brother and I shared a bedroom upstairs that used to serve as where my dad and his younger brother slept. My older brother got the privilege of the bigger bed (he was also just a larger person), and right before bedtime my dad would read to us. The story I remember the most clearly was "The Hobbit." And I remember always feeling caught in between a state of calm sleepiness and a yearning to stay awake so that I could keep hearing, keep living in that imaginative world. There are so many books that I always look back to. Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs: a harrowing tale where kids get to miss school, because the weather becomes strangely food related. It rains meatballs, yes, but also enormous pancakes smothered in butter and syrup. Harold and the Purple Crayon: where a young boy leaves his bed with a purple crayon and sets off on an adventure where he literally draws his world and what he wants to happen in it. My favorite part is when he draws a picnic, and several delicious-looking pies, all of which he fully intends to eat.
Today was St. Patrick's Day. I chose to celebrate by drinking a beer in my pajamas.
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