1EGBERTINA
If anyone would like to share how they first began this venture- or any topic in that vein- feel free to let us know. short or long; both are fine.
2EGBERTINA
It was a nameless 5th grade librarian that introduced the name, "Newbery" and awarded us with paper medals for every Newbery read; in a closet, called a library that sadly didn't have and never mentioned Newberies beyond the 1950's.
Periodically, across my adulthood, I would purchase, unconsciously, one medal-bearing title or another; or read some with my children, also, with no great intention.
It was when the nest became empty that I made my first conscious attempt to read the Newberies. It was, however, upon joining LibraryThing that I brought considered agency to the task, and the realisation of something lost.
In seventh grade, as the caboose of my mother's nearly vacant nest, I was shuttled across the country without warning; though it is doubtful that preparation could ever have made a difference in the next seven years. They were bleak years and I had always recognized that. Upon cataloguing my books, an apprehension came forward, never cognized, prior.
I had known that there were no kind teachers; no visible librarians; and no culture of reading. I had not realised that I had ceased to buy books or receive them, which had been a prominent feature of life in my formation. Everything read in those years was either a hand-me-down from who-knows-where, or something that crossed my path, inadvertently. When I finally renewed acquaintance with Newberies, I was stunned to find the realm of books that had existed in my young adult childhood.
Although, I have enjoyed this adult journey, lost is imprudent glee that only childhood naiveté provides.
Periodically, across my adulthood, I would purchase, unconsciously, one medal-bearing title or another; or read some with my children, also, with no great intention.
It was when the nest became empty that I made my first conscious attempt to read the Newberies. It was, however, upon joining LibraryThing that I brought considered agency to the task, and the realisation of something lost.
In seventh grade, as the caboose of my mother's nearly vacant nest, I was shuttled across the country without warning; though it is doubtful that preparation could ever have made a difference in the next seven years. They were bleak years and I had always recognized that. Upon cataloguing my books, an apprehension came forward, never cognized, prior.
I had known that there were no kind teachers; no visible librarians; and no culture of reading. I had not realised that I had ceased to buy books or receive them, which had been a prominent feature of life in my formation. Everything read in those years was either a hand-me-down from who-knows-where, or something that crossed my path, inadvertently. When I finally renewed acquaintance with Newberies, I was stunned to find the realm of books that had existed in my young adult childhood.
Although, I have enjoyed this adult journey, lost is imprudent glee that only childhood naiveté provides.
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