Nostalgia. That is the word I think of when I recall my childhood days.
Nostalgia. When dreams were as endless as the skies above; where days were filled with wonder and longing at the adventures unfolding at my fingertips.
I don’t know about you but I started my passion as a reader from a young age. Like, a really young age. Reading was encouraged for youngsters, and I secretly thought (with all the glee of a child could) all the adults in my life wished their kids had such a love for reading as I did so early on.
My fondness for books has only grown in the years from its meager beginnings. As evidence of this, shelf upon shelf have been lovingly crafted as homes for the books I deemed worthy enough to house (and pay for). One, two, there, slowly they came. Each book cherished. Each one with a story that draws breath into an almost forgotten memory.
But oh. The stories that are true treasures? Those are rare and far between these days. What are they? you may ask. Ah, they are but the stories that travel parallel to my own life’s story.
Picture this. Have you ever recalled a book and besides its own story that it brings back, it also draws out the events in your own life that had been captured in memory associated with that book? If not, then it’s never too late for such a wondrous book to come into your life. But if you are someone who understands this sentiment? That, my friend, is nostalgia at its finest.
And thus, the prompting for this post is to regale my utter excitement at finding two such stories that beheld my childhood days.
Do not laugh or scold me. Truly, I don’t think such a tale deserves to be considered as mere child’s play. It may be old, but I think the finest stories lie in its ability to withstand the age it was written in. A test of time, if you will.
What is it? My fondest memory and favourite genre as a child was, in fact, mystery novels. And to whom shall I give my thanks for such a love? That regard goes to the coolest girl detectives ever.
You probably guessed it by now. These girls are none other than Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden.
I was a true fan of both series. For the former, my secret dream has recently been to collect the original first 56 hardcover novels that were written under the pseudonym Carolyn Keene over the vast long years. Not an easy (or cheap) feat, I’ll tell you. So I thought it was just simply that. A dream. I’ll leave it to the pieces of my conscious mind to reminisce over the grand adventures I myself pretended to live while thriving on the years of those mysteries.
Then, lo and behold, I come across a beautiful section of a second-hand bookstore in a nearby town. What do my eyes find almost immediately? A whole section of her books, almost a complete collection of the 56 hardcovers. Of course, even at reduced prices, I could hardly pay for them all. But that’s not the purpose of this post.
I’m sharing with you that wonderful feeling of remembering. So many times do people, as they grow up, tend to push aside what once mattered in hopeless search for things that may always be just out of our grasp. Sometimes, I think it’s worthwhile to remember what it felt to have a heart of a child. And a mind of a dreamer. Where fantastical worlds and endless possibilities were our guiding light.
If you were a young reader like I was and truly enjoyed it, I’d say, the key for such feelings may lie deep within a book that parallel your story.
So. Whatever did I do at the second-hand bookstore? I bought a few of the books, of course. Not the 56 that I would’ve liked, but just enough to remind myself that it’s okay to sit still and dream a little even as I get older and dreams turn more into a long-ago fantasy that was once conjured.