My sister was reading by the age of four, and my parents couldn’t stop bragging about it. They loved telling everyone how she’d just picked up a book one day and started reading. I got so tired of hearing that story that I would leave the room whenever it came up.
In contrast, I struggled immensely with reading. Looking back, I realize I was likely dealing with dyslexia. I dreaded reading aloud, often stumbled over long words, and would sometimes read or write things backwards. Even now, if I see a lengthy word, my focus tends to fade after just a couple of syllables.
While my friends seemed to sail through reading, I felt like I was drowning. It’s funny because even today, when I learn something new—like knitting—I often find myself doing it in reverse. That’s just how my brain is wired.
Everything changed for me when I picked up Beverly Cleary’s “Ramona Quimby, Age 8” in the middle of second grade. For the first time, I was not reading a graphic novel, and I found it surprisingly manageable. My sister had a whole shelf of Cleary’s books in our shared room, a collection that she guarded fiercely, and I was not allowed to touch them.
After sneaking that first book, I suddenly saw her bookshelf in a new light. I craved to read all of Cleary’s works, and instead of raiding my sister’s collection, I began checking out her books from our local library, which had an even wider selection. Our weekly library trips became something I looked forward to rather than dreaded.
Reading became a joy instead of a chore, especially when I could enjoy it without the worry of my sister reclaiming her books. Those colorful covers with playful titles felt like home, and I could relate to Ramona and her experiences with family and friends. It was as if I was transported into her world, experiencing emotions I had never felt through reading before.
There were moments when Ramona annoyed me, yet those books were doing something magical: they sparked my imagination and provided an escape. That was the moment I was hooked. For months, I hesitated to read anything else, fearing that no other author could compare to Beverly Cleary’s work. I didn’t want to miss out on the joy I found while lounging on our hammock, trying to ignore my sisters’ pleas for help in the kitchen.
I often ponder whether I would have become a reader without discovering Cleary’s books. Teachers had repeatedly told me how poor my reading skills were, and I began to doubt myself. What if I had never dared to take “Ramona Quimby, Age 8” off the shelf that fateful Saturday? Would another author have inspired me the same way?
Beverly Cleary’s writing opened another door for me; her stories were engaging, relatable, and straightforward. They made me realize that perhaps I could write, too. After all, I loved sharing stories and chatting, so putting my thoughts down on paper felt like a natural progression.
When I learned of Cleary’s passing, it struck me deeply. It made me reflect on how different my life might have been without her books. Although she is no longer with us, the legacy of her writing will endure. It’s a priceless gift, and I know I’m just one of many whose lives she touched.
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Summary
Beverly Cleary’s books were a turning point in my life as a late reader, helping me to overcome the challenges of dyslexia and find joy in reading. Her relatable characters and engaging stories inspired me to not only read but also to write. Her legacy continues to impact countless readers, including myself.