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by Mickie Harwell, Raymond, Mississippi
Source: The Avonlea Traditions Chronicle, Issue No. 22, Winter 1997/8.
Growing up in a household that had no regard for reading, literature, or formal education for women, I had no comprehension of the power contained between the covers of books. The world of literature unfolded to me, however, during Mrs. Thrailkills' English class and during the hours I spent working as a high school library assistant.
I loved the library. Coming from a noisy home (one sister and three brothers), I revelled in the solitude and quiet it offered me. I savoured the smell of the aging pages and leather-bound books that permeated throughout the undisturbed air of the room - so pleasant and soothing. How appealing the wall-to-wall shelves were, filled with books of varying sizes and hues. The authors' names seemed regal, imprinted in diverse graphic letter styles on each cover.
Between restacking shelves and checking out books for other readers, I ran my fingers along the rows of books until one called out to be pulled from the shelf and devoured. By the time I came to the end of each book, the author and I were united - friends forever. My comrades included Edgar Allan Poe, Louisa May Alcott, William Shakespeare, Robert Frost, O'Henry and many others.
I helped Poe uncover the black cat from behind the cellar wall and followed him down by the sea to mourn his Annabell Lee (Annabell Lee). I followed Jo March's writing career and watched with excitement as she unwrapped from brown paper, her first book (Little Women). I tasted the bitter poison and held my breath as Juliet took her last (Romeo and Juliet). I built stone fences and swung on birches with Frost (Birches), and I knelt quickly and caught Della's hair when she cut it to sell, in order to buy Jim a watch chain for Christmas (The Gift of the Magi). I not only read the books-I lived them.
Graduating from high school, I left my classmates behind, but I took my literary friends with me. Along life's way the writers provided me escape, entertainment, encouragement and inspiration. How do these "literary gods" manipulate words that cause me to see what my eyes do not see, to hear what my ears do not hear, to feel what I do not touch, to smell what my nose does not, and to taste what my tongue does not? They hold the power of the written word.
A year after graduation I married and started a family. Sharing the love of books with my children, I made sure they entered the world of literature early. I impressed upon my son and daughters the importance of a formal education. How proud I feel to have reared a graphic artist, a reading teacher, and a music major - each having made literary friends of their own.
Only five years ago a neighbour (who is also a kindred spirit) introduced me to the book, Anne of Green Gables. As I read, an amazing phenomenon occurred - a unique connection of myself to the main character, Anne Shirley. Seemingly, the author knew me intimately and wrote about me. Impossible-she died in 1942; I was born in 1945. In all my reading such a connection had never occurred.
Because of my affection for Anne, my husband Buddy took me to Prince Edward Island, the setting for the book. There I eagerly sought out information about the author (from her relatives, friends, and museums). I traced the steps of her life across the Island. To my delight I found her published journal in the bookstore of her Cavendish homesite.
On the plane returning home, Buddy considerately left me alone to devour the journals. There I learned of the struggles and events that led to L. M. Montgomery's success.
Like me, she had a love of reading and a deep respect for the writers who inspired her. Like me, she expressed herself in diaries, journals, letters, school publications, essays and compositions of prose and poetry. Like me, she had persistence, a big imagination, a love of nature, a belief in God, and a nagging sense of insecurity.
But, unlike me, she had a formal education and sought publication. She suffered numerous rejections, but never lost heart. L. M. Montgomery clipped a bit of verse from a current magazine and pasted it into her writing portfolio.
"Every time I opened the portfolio," she said, "I read it over; it was the key-note of my every aim and ambition." The verse from To The Fringed Gentian read:
Then whisper, blossom, in thy sleep How I may upward climb The Alpine Path, so hard, so steep, That leads to heights sublime; How I may reach that far-off goal Of true and honoured fame, And write upon its shining scroll A woman's humble name. William Cullen Bryant
The instant I read this excerpt from L. M. Montgomery's journal, it pierced my soul. I stood in the Alpine Path while L. M. Montgomery handed off the scroll to me like a baton in a relay race.
"It's your turn," she whispered.
So now I lay down the scroll, pick up my pen and write, go to college, seek publication, and persevere until a book bearing the name HARWELL in graphic letters appears on the shelf of a library for some eager reader to unfold.
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