Books open up new worlds to exploration

Last Friday, the world mourned the passing of Harper Lee, author of “To Kill a Mockingbird.” Her death caused me to reflect on her novel — which tops the long list of my favorites. The book significantly impacted my life when I read it at age 13 — not quite a child, but not yet a young woman. It somehow eased that transition for me. Atticus Finch, a beacon of morality and virtue, became a hero in my eyes. I now have a son named in his honor.

Atticus Fry, 14 months, also has a fondness for books — which is to say he enjoys pulling them down from the shelf in fistfuls.

Atti will grab dozens of books, carpet the floor with them, sit on them, and aggressively turn their pages until he finds his favorite pictures. His method is a bit rough on the spines, and I have to put books back on the shelf several times a day, but I hope even this primitive “reading” will spark a passion for him.

My childhood home on Fishhook Road was a safe haven for a book lover like myself. I was often scolded for my piles of clothes on the floor, but never for the untidy tower of books on my desk. It was also understood, and accepted, that the walk home from the bus stop each school day would take twenty minutes, because I was walking while reading.

My mother made frequent trips to the Palmer Public Library with me and my six older siblings. It was there I made new friends, including Laura, from “The Little House on the Prairie,” Wilbur, from “Charlotte’s Web,” and Sophie, from “The BFG.” Summer was wonderful for many reasons, but chief among them was the summer reading program and the party at its close.

As I grew, I left the bright decorations and terraced steps of the children’s section for new shelves. The last time I went to the Palmer library I wandered over to my old haunt, the young adult section, and was surprised to find that I remembered reading every book on the top shelf. I must have put each one from Ab to Br in my book bag and read them sequentially.

When I discovered audiobooks, I listened to “Anne of Green Gables” while working in the garden and “A Series of Unfortunate Events” while lounging in the bath. Eventually, I made my way to the nonfiction section in search of information for a research paper and got lost in the real-life thrills of autobiographies and true crime.

I spent so much time at the library that I sometimes fantasized about becoming a librarian when I “grew up,” but, unfortunately, being a voracious reader is not the job’s only qualification. Though I loved the library dearly, I always had a hard time keeping my voice at an indoor level and keeping track of my books. Purchasing lost books was a common occurrence, and paying late fees was a regular one. Still, the librarians never made me feel unwelcome—loud and irresponsible as I was, they would pull me aside to recommend a newly released title and were continually pleased to see me. I will always love them for that.

As a sentimental person, I enjoyed collecting books, so my other favorite hang-out was Fireside Books. I used to beg my mom to drop me off there whenever she had errands to run.

The staff won’t recognize my name, but if you showed them a photo of me in sixth-grade and asked, police-style, “Have you seen this girl?” David Cheezem would probably say yes. I hope I didn’t annoy him when I trounced in about once a week, long brown pigtail braids bouncing, and sat down to read a book I didn’t own.

Honestly, I wasn’t much of a customer, as I rarely had any money to buy books. I took the store’s inventory for long test drives, even having the audacity to dog-ear pages so that I could find my place next time. I’m sure my ruse wasn’t as clever as I remember, but if the staff noticed, they never said anything.

I regularly scoured my house for books to sell for credit. If I found a book discarded by an older sibling that looked boring, I promptly brought it to Fireside to exchange for something better.

One of my favorite memories is Fireside Books’ midnight release party for “Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix” in 2003. At the age of twelve, my mom allowed me to go along with my two cousins, and we participated in a scavenger hunt through downtown Palmer. I loved going door to door and marveling at the way the shop owners had come together and transformed their domains into parts of the magical realm. At the stroke of midnight we lined up to get our books, pre-ordered of course, and agonized when Mom quickly confiscated them. We would read all night otherwise, she said, and we could have them back in the morning. She was probably right. I learned years later that she herself stayed up with my copy to read the first chapter, and I still haven’t forgiven her for it.

As I write this, I am pulled from my musings of the past to take care of pressing matters —Atticus has relocated the books to the floor again. I really dislike the constancy with which I tidy the living room, and I know there’s a simple solution: move the books so that Atti can’t reach them. But I just can’t bring myself to do it, because I never want books to be off-limits to him, or to his older sister (who admittedly treats them with a bit more respect).

In my home, at the library, and at the bookstore, books were never off-limits to me.

Rachel Kenley Fry was born and raised in Palmer and graduated from Utah State University in 2012 with degrees in journalism and agricultural communication. Her previous work for the Frontiersman includes two years as a “Student Views” columnist and contributions for a “What to Eat” column while she was an intern with the Alaska Division of Agriculture. She currently lives in Virginia with her husband and two children.