When one of my sons was small, he always had his nose in a book. In fact, an overzealous gym teacher once told his older brother that he should tell the younger that he shouldn’t be reading so much at recess. I figured if a six year old wanted to read Harry Potter at recess, I’d just let him.

He’s still a voracious reader – both the boys are –  much as his mother is, and it got me thinking recently about the books I loved in my childhood.

I still have some of them, although I admit that others got donated when I downsized several years ago. 

I’ve just discovered that this old, faded book, called Little Grey Men, is back in print, as part of the Julie Andrews collection. I absolutely loved this book, chronicling the adventures of the last four gnomes in Britain. Originally published in 1942, I think it was my father’s originally, but spent many a Saturday afternoon imagining this band of three brave brothers, in search of a lost fourth. They drank from acorn caps and talked with the local kingfisher. Their world was magical and I adored it. The author was a mysterious “B.B.” which played with my imagination; when I found the reprint, I also discovered the pseudonym belonged to Denys James Watkins-Pitchford, a a British naturalist, children’s writer, and illustrator.

Maybe it was the wonderful illustrations (courtesy of Margaret Tempest) in what I call the “Little Grey Rabbit” books by Alison Uttley that made this series so special to me. I still have one or two, although they’re falling apart. Little Grey Rabbit’s Christmas is one of them. In the books, she rescues her naughty friends, Squirrel and Hare, from their misadventures and looks for advice from Wise Owl. Little Fuzzypeg – a hedgehog – was another beloved character. Little Grey Rabbit was nurturing and kind and I wanted to be like her when I grew up.

Fast forward a few years, and like every young Canadian girl, I think, I read L. M. Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables. The spunky Anne spoke to my rebellious side, but even more than Anne, I fell in love with Pat of Silver Bush. I drank in the descriptive narrative of a young girl living in a house she desperately loves, and I’m sure it encouraged me to try my own hand at some creative writing. I wanted to be able to imagine worlds to such a fine level of detail myself. Sure, Pat was a bit stuck in her ways and abhorred change, but she loved her little world with fierce passion.

And then there was Jo. My thick red volume of Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women had me spellbound. When my little brother was driving me mad, I could escape to a world where there were essentially only girls (except for the wonderful Laurie) and I could dream about being a writer like Jo, or aspire to be kind, like Meg. I was fascinated by this family of women. I didn’t really understand, at first reading, why Mr. March was missing, and  while I grew to understand through rereading it later, I’m not sure it really matters. This book is all about the love of sisters and family.

Finally, I can’t leave out the Little House on the Prairie series. My own set was so dog-eared that by the time I had a daughter of my own, I had to buy a new set. I pored over Laura’s adventures all the way from the Little House in the Big Woods through to he married years with Almonzo. I was fascinated to realize her daughter had written my mother’s big needlework book. The excitement of moving west intrigued me and Laura’s career as a teacher at such a young age seemed romantic, despite the challenges of being away from home.

I could go on about books that inspired me, but this seems like a good place to stop! What books inspired you when you were young?