Ok, I knew this was coming, but I don't think I was fully prepared for it. I may or possibly may not have started to cry as I watched the trailer here.
When I was a youngling, I did not have the
happiest of childhoods. However, I could always
find happiness and escape in the pages of a book.
This was one of my particular favorites...
Max making mischief of one kind
I read this Easy Picture book until I was well over 12 years old...um, who am I kidding? I still pull it out and read it. I have a sacred spot on my bookshelf that holds about a dozen thin volumes which mean more to me than any collectible or vintage book I own. My Where the Wild Things Are hardback is nestled in among them, as is Pierre, also by Maurice Sendak, Johnny Hop's Adventure by Mary E. Roberts, Junk Day on Juniper Street by Lillian Moore, The Story of Zachary Zween by Mabel Watts, The Cookie Tree by Jay Williams, and another personal favorite, Old Black Witch by Harry and Wende Devlin.
Sometimes I find myself cleaning off the bookshelf, or some other surface in my bedroom and before I know it, I am seated in front of that shelf with a pile of slender, colorful books in my lap and suddenly I am transported back in time. My cat Muffin has wrapped himself around my neck as I lay on my frilly bedspread and read. I love my time machine. It has a great filter. Only the good stuff is allowed to come back and keep me company. That cat was a marvel! He let my little sister wrap him up in her baby blankets and tuck him in a doll carriage. What cat does that???? I can still see his orange face peeking through her pink blankets. Only the smallest bit of his nose and eyes visible he seemed to be resigned to his fate. What a good boy! You would think he might have drawn the line at the pink surrounding him and tried to escape, but he was flexible that way. He'd stay on his back, wrapped up like that for several trips around the living room and through the hall. He'd usually slip out at some point, or be freed finally by my sister and slink off to the back of the house somewhere. Always I would find him on my pillow and as I lay down to read or listen to my 45's, he'd lie down across my chest and neck, tail around the top of my head like a fuzzy hat and we would just kind of "hang" that way. I still read lying on my back sometimes on the couch or the bed and I can almost feel him there, keeping silent company, sometimes looking up at the book as if he could comprehend all those letters on the page. I wish I had a photo of him, but I realise that it isn't necessary. He is so tied in with all those lovely books and memories that I can still see him hanging about when I get them out. Funny what you think of some times...