1
My parents were readers. There were always books on their bedside tables. I didn't see them reading in bed until I must have been in high school... because I was sent to bed before they went to bed. But I always knew they would be reading just before going to sleep, probably every night.
Dad would usually have one or more of his magazines on his table, or under the windows at the side of his bed. He'd have Newsweek, for example, or maybe the Reader's Digest.
Both parents liked mysteries, and novels by Nevil Shute. Sometimes they bought them, and often they would get them from the library.
2
To a little boy, our city's public library was an imposing structure. It was beautiful with a wide expanse of white stone steps leading up to the large wooden door. The library faced a quiet little park too, with a white gazebo or bandstand in its center in the shade under the big live-oak trees.
I don't think I was more than five or so when Mother would regularly drop me off at the foot of all those steps at the library and stay there in the car as I climbed up and eventually opened the big door. Then I would turn and watch her drive away. "Don't leave the children's section," she would tell me in the car, so that she could be sure to find me later. By that time, I must have known the Children's Room pretty well. It was down the hall to the left.
When I would go in the front door, I wouldn't look at the people up there behind the big circulation desk. Sometimes, one of them would say sweetly, "Hello there! How are you today?" And I would feel right at home.
3
They had a limit on the number of books you could check out for a week. Otherwise, I would have gotten more than six, even if that meant making two trips down and up those big steps just to carry them all. There was a long series of books for children about great Americans. I read them all, six at a time, many of them more than once. Those are the books I most associate in my memory with that library.
I remember "George Washington Carver: Boy Scientist," and "Tom Edison: Boy Inventor." I guess they made it seem that each of these great Americans had started out on their eventual career while they were still in short pants. I wonder if I imagined a book about me one day, "Byron Derrick: Boy Reader"?
But there were dozens of these wonderful books: "Clara Barton: Girl Nurse," "Meriwether Lewis: Boy Explorer," "Kit Carson: Boy Trapper," "Wilbur and Orville Wright: Boy Fliers," and so on...
I imagine that these little biographies would seem naive and even silly today, even to a child; but they set my imagination zooming, taking me from state to state, from culture to culture, from profession to profession, from era to era in ways that felt liberating and inspiring. That must have been the goal, and at least with me, it worked.
I don't recall one of these books about George Washington. Would it have been called "George Washington: Boy Father of Our Country"? Or "George Washington: Boy First President"? Or what about Andrew Jackson, "Boy Indian Hater"? "Babe Ruth: Boy Sultan of Swat" or "Boy Bambino"? What about "Susan B. Anthony: Girl Feminist"?
4
I must have read lots of other books from the public library. It was a big room with a Children's Librarian watchful and helpful. I used to sit at the side tables and look through, or read, the encyclopedias. My favorite was Collier's. It did have pictures, but that wasn't that unusual. I seem to remember liking the boldness of the print and the page layout, that sort of thing. So many subjects seemed so interesting. I must have looked up each of the "Great Americans" too. Sitting Bull, Davy Crockett, Jim Thorpe, Helen Keller, William Penn, Pocahontas...
The other encyclopedias were the Britannica Jr. and Compton's (too bulky, print too small, margins too narrow) and of course The World Book, which Mother eventually bought for my sister and me when my sister entered 9th or 10th grade. At the library I looked at that one too, but thought it looked like it had been written for kids!
It's not possible now to sort out which books I read from the public library, and which ones came from the school libraries... Some just must have been available in both places, the ones at the public library being in better shape, cleaner and less worn...
5
My elementary school was small, with only two classes for each grade. But the library seemed large enough, double the size of the classrooms (as it seems in my memory now). I think that the children started going to the library in the 4th grade or so. I don't think you were allowed to stay more than a few minutes each time, and you could take out only one book at a time.
In my memory I associate with the school library at elementary school fond experiences with the historical novels of an author called Stephen W. Meader. I had learned from my mother that it was a good idea to commit to memory the name of the author of any favorite book, so that the next time or at another library you could maybe find another book by the same man or woman. This was a new strategy for me. At the public library I had (at first) settled on that one long series of biographies. I paid no attention to who the author was.
But I still remenber some specific novels by Mr. Meader. One was about Paul Revere's famous ride, Who Rides in the Dark? Another was about the development of the railroads across 19th century America: The Long Trains Roll. I found one of Meader's books particularly exciting; it was about a submarine. The Sea Snake it was called. I also remember Down the Big River, the title of which is all I do recall; it must have been about the Mississippi. I could look up Meader - in fact, I will look him up - but his name and these titles have stayed with me in my memory for 50 or 60 years.
[The local public library system where I live now has a variety of children's books by Stephen W. Meader, most of them co-authored. The earliest is dated 1920 (The Black Buccaneer) and the latest (A Blow for Liberty), which is labeled a first edition, dated 1965. He is said to have lived from 1892 to 1977, pretty close to my Dad's years.
Among the titles at my library are some that seem familiar, like Lumberjack, Boy With a Pack, T-Model Tommy (I just know I read that one), Clear for Action!, Whaler Round the Horn, and "Guns for the Saratoga." That one was published in 1955 when I would have been 13 (a little old for that sort of thing, as it now seems to me). The last Meader book that I had remembered without prompting - The Sea Snake - was published in 1944 when I was two.]
6
I didn't own many books, but I remember many others from one library or another. There were sports books, for instance, like Flashing Spikes by Frank O'Rourke. His name is one I learned since that particular book of his was such a favorite. Mother would sometimes say, "Why Derrick, haven't you read this one before?" Maybe she thought I took six every week just to be doing it. "I just want to read it again," I must have said.
Another author's name I still remember was John R. Tunis. I have the sense I read quite a few of his; the only title I remember is The Iron Duke, about an Olympic track star (could it have been in the 1936 Olympics in Berlin?). But I think most of the ones I remember enjoying were about baseball. One of them was called The Kid From Tomlinston. At least I think that one was also by Tunis; it was certainly one of my favorites.
I also liked some animal stories, a lot of them about dogs, I think. Eventually they included Jack London's White Fang books and The Call of the Wild. Two that were given to me as Christmas presents were Kazan, the Wolf Dog and Son of Kazan. These were written by a man named Albert Payson Terhune. Having three names may have been the thing for dogs boy-book novelists; another name I remember was (really) James Oliver Curwood.
Back in the school library, I remember often looking through a reference book called Twentieth-Century Authors. I don't remember what exactly drew me to that one, along with the encyclopedias, but I had the habit of thumbing through it from time to time, especially when I couldn't find a book to check out.
7
The living room at home had bookshelves on most walls, with Mother's and Dad's old books on them. Mostly Dad's, I thought (why I don't know). A few shelves were devoted to old National Geographics, but I didn't look at them much. There also were always current issues of magazines on the coffee table in front of the couch, including the Saturday Evening Post (whose cartoons were the best) and Reader's Digest (whose little jokes at the bottom of many pages were also favorites), as well as the Look, Collliers, or Newsweek that my Dad didn't have upstairs.
There were Tarzan novels, one of my Dad’s youthful entertainments. He told me that at one time – probably during college, now that I think of it – he thought he could write an interesting article on Edgar Rice Burroughs. But that little collection of older paperbacks was as much an aberration as the old National Geographics.
Above those old things, my parents’ enjoyment in reading mysteries was reflected. There was a whole shelf of The Saint books, light blue. (I tried, but as an early and then a later adolescent, I just couldn’t get into them. Maybe now?) And there were a lot of books with black covers that had a little man logo with a magnifying glass, printed at the bottom of the spine in red against the black, and the words “Crime Club.” My recollection is that these were all terrific. Several were by Philip MacDonald. I’m not sure of any other authors, but one other title was The Seven Keys to Bald Pate. (I liked that one too.) Most of these had been published before 1940, and most stories were set in England.
Nearby, as well as all the way across the room, were some classics. There was one collection of Modern Library editions, for instance, with Somerset Maugham and Thomas Mann and Zola. Dad had also collected those inexpensive editions before we'd been born. There was a large collection of all the Stories of O. Henry; I liked them quite a bit, maybe even a little more than those in the big volume of stories of Maupassant.
At one point as I neared completion of high school, I decided that I should read the longest novel in the house (i.e. living room). Les Miserables was edged out for that honor by what turned out to be a historical novel by Hervey (was it pronounced as though it were "Harvey"?) Allen called Anthony Adverse. I barely remember it, I’m sorry to say. Another of the longer ones I read was Maugham’s Of Human Bondage. That was not what I’d anticipated – which could have been what, exactly? – but I found it gripping, intense, and fascinating.
Sanders of the River (I think the river was the Congo) was another sort of thing entirely, an adventure novel. I admired it, enjoyed reading it enough that I looked for another novel by Edgar Wallace at the library. Whatever I found there was disappointing, however.
On the same bookcase on that side of the room were some anthologies, one of them with entertaining short stories and little poems, edited by Clifton Fadiman (only a name on a book spine to me at the time). I remember that a hilarious story by James Thurber was in that collection. Nearby on the shelf was also a complete collection of Shakespeare's plays. It had an ornate dark blue cover with silver highlights. It was published, as I recall, in the United States (not in New York... Chicago maybe?), in 1889 or something like that. My Dad was never a rich man, had in fact lived in real poverty until his thirties, so he must have bought this volume used. He had even put in it - as he had with several of the classics - a book plate into which he had typed his name (not printed for him, you know). He must have been proud to own his own collection of Shakespeare's plays...
Also on those shelves was a regular favorite of mine that, over a number of years, I would take down now and then when I had a few minutes to fill, waiting for something to happen in the living room... maybe supper in the kitchen nearby? It was The Best Loved Poems of the American People.
"Casey at the Bat" was in that volume, as well as other poems that just about everyone was familiar with: "The Man on the Flying Trapeze," "The Raven," "The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere," "The Charge of the Light Brigade." Maybe it was there that I first saw Kipling's "On the Road to Mandalay," which was also a song in my mother's youth. She liked to play it for me on the old upright piano we had in the living room... when I would always beg her to play "American Patrol" too.
8
I'm having much too much fun reminiscing about my early reading experiences. Too much, that is, to try to continue all the way till I finish with the subject. I will call this piece "Part One." And continue some time later.
But before closing Part One, let me add that several years ago, I actually bought for myself a used copy of The Best Loved Poems of the American People, published in 1936. But when I first got it, I went through the Table of Contents and made a check in the margin by the names of those poems I remembered as childhood favorites. Among those old favorites I have already mentioned were these others: "Guilty Or Not Guilty?," "The Bank Thief," "If," "I have a Rendezvous with Death" and "In Flanders Fields," "Old Ironsides," and "Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog."
Extra special favorites, along with those I first mentioned, include "Hell in Texas" (like the "Mad Dog" poem, a comic piece) and "Invictus" which, as captain of my soul, I still think of as one of my favorites.
to be continued
***
"Casey at the Bat" was in that volume, as well as other poems that just about everyone was familiar with: "The Man on the Flying Trapeze," "The Raven," "The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere," "The Charge of the Light Brigade." Maybe it was there that I first saw Kipling's "On the Road to Mandalay," which was also a song in my mother's youth. She liked to play it for me on the old upright piano we had in the living room... when I would always beg her to play "American Patrol" too.
8
I'm having much too much fun reminiscing about my early reading experiences. Too much, that is, to try to continue all the way till I finish with the subject. I will call this piece "Part One." And continue some time later.
But before closing Part One, let me add that several years ago, I actually bought for myself a used copy of The Best Loved Poems of the American People, published in 1936. But when I first got it, I went through the Table of Contents and made a check in the margin by the names of those poems I remembered as childhood favorites. Among those old favorites I have already mentioned were these others: "Guilty Or Not Guilty?," "The Bank Thief," "If," "I have a Rendezvous with Death" and "In Flanders Fields," "Old Ironsides," and "Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog."
Extra special favorites, along with those I first mentioned, include "Hell in Texas" (like the "Mad Dog" poem, a comic piece) and "Invictus" which, as captain of my soul, I still think of as one of my favorites.
to be continued
***
