The Yellow Book in the Basement

One of the first chapter books I remember reading is Harriet the Spy by Louise Fitzhugh. I was in the second grade during the 1975–76 school year when my teacher, Mrs. Luthi, challenged me to start reading chapter books.

I had been reading for a while by then, at least in my own way. After all, my mom was a school teacher! 

Before kindergarten, it was recognizing patterns from left to right, picking out familiar words like “a” and “the,” and recognizing images. In first grade, with Mrs. Stock, I remember reading Dick and Jane. “See Jane. See Jane run. Run Jane run.”

Reading came easily to me, and I moved quickly into the top reading group in class, often pushing beyond what was assigned. Mrs. Luthi saw that and knew I needed a stretch goal to keep learning, so she challenged me to begin reading chapter books.

Not long after that, I was in the basement of our house, browsing a large bookcase filled with hundreds of books. One in particular caught my eye. It was a yellow hardback with Harriet the Spy printed in bold black letters across a splash of orange. For whatever reason, it seemed to call to me. 

My well-worn copy of Harriet the Spy

Looking back, the book likely belonged to my older sister Kris.

I thought it would be fun to read a spy book, so I took it upstairs and began reading.

I remember thinking it was odd that Harriet had a nanny named Ole Golly and wondering what kind of name that was. I thought it would be cool to have a friend named Sport like she did.

I felt real tension as I read about her sneaking into the dumbwaiter to spy on Mrs. Plumber, half expecting her to get caught at any moment and knowing she would. When her notebook was discovered, and she became an outcast, I felt that with her.

It was also my first time encountering a swear word in a book. I was shocked that a sixth grader would say, “I’ll be damned if I go to dancing school.”

I laughed when she played an onion in the school play. And I remember feeling relieved, almost triumphant, when she reconciled with Sport and Janie, and things began to feel right with Ole Golly being gone.

I remember the feeling of accomplishment when I finished the book. I did not tell anyone. By then, finishing a book simply meant it was time to find another one.

I read it again and again, at least once each year, through my early teenage years. At first, rereading it helped strengthen my reading. There were words I had skipped or not fully understood the first time. Each time through, I picked up more.

Over time, it became part of a cycle.

We lived on a ranch, and the nearest library was about twenty miles away. We did not always have the means to buy new books, and as I got older and took on more responsibilities, I did not make it to the library as often. I read everything I could find. Sometimes that meant pulling out an encyclopedia volume and reading whatever pages I opened to, just to have something to read.

Eventually, I had my own bookcase with a collection of books that I cycled through each year, and Harriet the Spy was always one of them. When I finished one book and needed another, I would go back to that shelf and choose from the same set again. It was familiar. It was available. And it was good.

Harriet the Spy was a window into the wonderful world of imagination and marked the beginning of my lifelong love of reading for pleasure.

But if I am honest, the roots of that love go even further back.

My mom read to us when we were young. I can still picture sitting with her as she read stories. She was a reader herself. I often saw her sitting with a book, usually a Harlequin romance. Books were just part of our home.

She usually gave me a book for my birthday and for Christmas. Later, she sent books to Jamie and Tanner both on gift-giving occasions and for fun. She passed before she could do the same for our other children, but I have no doubt she would have continued that tradition for them and now for their children as well.

That is part of why I give books as gifts. It reminds me of her.

We read aloud to our kids as they were growing up, and now I give books to my grandchildren. It is a way of passing something along.

I still enjoy getting to know new characters and imagining scenes as they unfold in my mind. But I also love to go back to something familiar. These days, my reading list is often filled with more academic material, but I still enjoy juvenile fiction.

I haven't revisited Harriet's story in years. 

Perhaps it's time.

I still have that same copy of Harriet the Spy.