A Child's Garden of Stories by KM Rockwood

I didn’t learn to read until I was in 5th grade—there is a story behind that—but once I had it mastered, I loved to read.

The selection of books available to me and my siblings was limited. We sometimes got books as Christmas or birthday presents, mostly what my mother considered to be appropriate standard children’s fare. The Little House books and the Five Little Pepper books. Also some classics like Winnie the Pooh and Little Women. Interesting that many of them have “little” in the titles, probably to show that they are intended for children.

We envied our friend’s collections of mystery books, mostly Nancy Drew, but also Trixie Belden and Judy Bolton. The most common gift brought to a birthday party for our peers was a book. The store in town that sold them kept a good stock available. If someone received a duplicate book, the proprietor would exchange it as long as it was still in pristine condition.

Unfortunately for us, my mother’s idea of an appropriate birthday gift for another girl was a pair of white gloves for church. We all wore white gloves to church. My mother’s philosophy was that “a girl can always use another pair of white gloves.” That may have had something to do with a piece of candy we were often given after church that I would clutch desperately in my gloved hand so that my brother would not realize I still had it. He would take it away from me. This was especially disastrous if the candy was chocolate, which was my favorite. I finally learned to shove it in my mouth the moment I received it.

I also had a tendency to pick interesting insects from the mud by the stream next to the church parking lot. Not the smartest move when wearing white cotton gloves.

We seldom had birthday parties ourselves. I, for one, was never well behaved enough to “earn” such an extravagance. So we had little to offer as the girls in the neighborhood engineered book exchanges.

I would sometimes visit our local library on the way home from school. It had a limited children’s collection, mostly somewhat dated nonfiction. Children were not permitted to visit the adult sections. I did borrow and read anything that caught my eye, although sometime I was admonished by staff for selecting “boys’ books.” When that happened, I would be humiliated, return the book to the shelf, and slink out empty-handed.

My father felt strongly that young minds should not be exposed to certain concepts. I remember his fury when he came across me reading a newspaper account of the concentration camps in Germany. “Not suitable for a child.” The majority of history, and of life, was not suitable for a child. Especially a girl.

However, we were mostly left to our own devices, except when tapped for housework and child care, so no one paid much attention to what we did with our free time. If we could get hold of a book and not flaunt it, we could read it.

Once I came across an entire box of books out for trash pickup, and spent an hour bringing them home and secreting them in the back of the closet and dresser drawers. I forget the titles, but some of them were quite daring for the time.

One aunt, my father’s older sister, loved to read mystery books. Agatha Christie was her favorite, although she read most of the Golden Age mystery writers. She would leave her books in our room for my older sister, who was her godchild, to read. We all knew not to say anything to my father, since we were not sure if he would view them as appropriate for young ladies.

My sister was not particularly interested in reading them, but I devoured them. I don’t think anyone was aware of that.

That may be where my love for mysteries originates.

When my husband declared that children should be exposed to whatever they wished to read or watch, I agreed. The caveat was, if the material was questionable, that a parent should watch or read it along side the child to help process and discuss the content.

Since I worked longer, more irregular hours in a much more exhausting job than my husband, it fell to him to implement the arrangement.

That worked pretty well until my younger daughter, who always had nerves of steel and a sense of adventure, took to watching horror movies.

She loved them, and they didn’t seem to bother her. But he got nightmares from them.

I was pleased to see my children grow up without restrictions on what they could read and watch. I think it helped them develop discriminating taste and a love for reading.