The seven ages of a woman: A book-filled life

Childhood

I have some fuzzy memories of being aged about four and my mum helping me to learn to read with a book that had big pictures. Unfortunately, I can’t remember its title but I think it was somewhat tattered and torn. Perhaps it had once been hers. I wish I had kept it forever.

Always, Mum would sit on my bed and read me stories. I took this for granted at the time, but when I reflect now that neither of her parents had been literate; it seems like a very special gift that she gave me. A gift which she herself had never received.

There followed years of happy reading usually receiving at least one new book on birthdays and at Christmas. Among my favourites were Noddy, Brer Rabbit, and Rupert Bear. Then of course, the wonderful Fairy stories that included: Cinderella (I can still see the picture of her in the ball gown before the coach was turned into a pumpkin), Snow White, and Little Red Riding Hood. A whole childhood of memories is evoked. But perhaps what is so incredibly wondrous is that none of my four grandparents were able to read. It seems that poor people just didn’t go to school much in those days. And yet, I remember these elders as being so adept in many other ways. In two generations then, our family went from lifetime illiteracy to attending university, which seems mind boggling. I had no understanding in those long gone days that my grans had lives completely without the escape, the wonder, the entertainment of books.

Pre-pubescence

These were the days when reading became at the same time both more and less serious in my life. I was reading ‘proper’ books now. I was encouraged at school to delve into Toad of Toad Hall, Huckleberry Finn, Little Women, the adventurous tales of Enid Blyton’s The Secret Seven and The Famous Five and sad, inspirational stories such as Katy’s Way. But alas and alack, while reading wholesome comics such as Girl and School Friend, I discovered little comic books called Love Stories. The latter were fairly innocuous, but I do blame them for planting a seed of romantic intrigue in my soul, which I think has lasted a lifetime, causing both pleasure and pain in abundance.

Teenage years

During these years, I attended high school, in my case an academic girls-only establishment. These years were filled with learning about the classic’s by delving into Shakespeare (Julius Caesar, Twelfth Night,) Henry James (Washington Square) George Elliott (Silas Marner), a selection of poetry and other “good reading.” And of course, it was the time for text books. Big thick volumes for learning all one needs to know about biology, geography, Latin, French – and let’s not forget the Bible! I wonder sometimes how we were not all put off books for ever after all this enforced reading. And not only that, we had to regurgitate a lot of it later during the eternal examinations.

Early adult

At age 20, after a fairly brief forage into a life of work and fun, I became a parent and my clearest memory of reading in these days was Dr Spock. Ah yes, it became my daily bible. My other memories of reading during this time are a little vague but I know I continued to do so, eagerly and voraciously imbibing the whole of the Forsyte Saga by John Galsworthy during my pregnancy with my second child. This paper-back version comprised of nine books which are still on my bookshelf to this day. One also needed to catch up on the slightly shocking books formerly denied to us by our parents such as Peyton Place, Lady Chatterley’s Lover and Fanny Hill. The freedom of being a married woman was not to be missed. And of course, there was the joy of helping my own children to learn to read. They loved their bed time stories too.

Thirties

This was my era of self-help books. You name it – I probably read it! I clearly remember that I started this new interest by reading Your Erroneous Zones by Wayne Dyer, and was astounded and somewhat nonplussed to realise that I was supposed to be completely responsible for my OWN happiness. No, the romance stories had been wrong, my husband was not in this world just to make me happy! And so began many years of delving in and out of self-development and spiritually inspiring tomes amongst which can be found such titles as: Feel the Fear and Do it Anyway, Love is Letting Go of Fear, Dare to Connect, Women Who Love Too Much and later The Art of Happiness,‘Turning Points, Care of the Soul. To name but a few. Additionally, there were the books to accompany my changes of career – for example: counselling, teaching and training, handling difficult people, management strategies, finding success. Etcetera! Yes there was a book to help me with everything.

Forty +

I would probably have to include all of the above categories – I was always busy with work, being a mum of adult children, getting divorced, finding love again. Meanwhile, there is still the need to escape, to entertain, to learn. All of this too can be found in books. I think at this stage, I should make a confession to my readers. There is one category that I regard as “my dark side”. Along with the inspirational books, I was simultaneously quite hooked on REAL LIFE murder stories – no, not Agatha Christie or similar for me. They had to be TRUE tales: The Boston Strangler, The Granny Killer, The Yorkshire Ripper, Ted Bundy (serial killer) and a whole two shelves full of similar gory tales. Don’t ask!

And Now What?

Well, now in my plus 60 years, I am delighted to be awaiting the publication of a book which I have co-written along with nine other women. Reading remains a regular part of life. I still escape, learn, and entertain myself for hours with them. There are now no rules for what I read, or at what speed. My main worry is “so many books – so little time”. Which to choose…?

I suppose there ARE some things in life you CAN’T learn from books – but I am not sure what those things are. Yet!

What books did you read at specific times throughout your life? Did any play a large role in shaping who you are? Tell us in the comments below…