A Childhood May Be Stolen, But Can It Also Be Redeemed?
by R. J. Jeffreys
As children, most of us spent many of our days at play. We discovered magical worlds inside empty cardboard boxes, and imagined all manner of things in the shapes of the cumulonimbus clouds that passed overhead on a warm summer’s day. At play, we felt connected to that magic, and fantastical places were our constant abode. Set free in our minds, anything became possible, and the horizons appeared limitless – horizons filled with memorable experiences that can last a lifetime.
My early childhood was far from the place where magic existed, or where clouds became my playmates. Stress, anxiety and fear were my only constant companions. My horizon was not an open vista; it was like a pitch-dark theater scrim that I could not stop from setting on the most developmental stage in a young life.
A childhood stolen is one that can never be restored, but it can be redeemed. I know this is true, because it happened to me. It was manifested by the propitious appearance of my dear Aunt Marion and precipitated by the sudden death of my favorite uncle, her husband, Richard.
Immediately after Uncle Richard’s funeral, my aunt came to live with my family and me. Marion was an accountant by trade, but she also had an unquenchable thirst for reading and books. Her grasp of language, grammar and the written word was astonishing. I cannot remember a single day spent with us when she did not have a book in-hand, and another two or three within arm’s reach.
On my twelfth birthday, my aunt presented me with the entire Encyclopedia Britannica collection. It included fifteen, inch-and-a-half thick volumes, and over the next two years I read each and every book, cover-to-cover, from aardvark to zebra.
I would pour myself into those encyclopedia pages. They were filled with incredible images, and I was mesmerized by them. I was absorbing thousands of words, which described all manner of exotic fauna and flora, far away continents with giant mountains that rose to heights above the clouds, expansive oceans separating the five continents by great divides, and all things then known that existed in the heavens and on earth.
Often, after reading something that sparked my imagination, I would dash to my aunt, while awkwardly attempting to hold that thick volume open, and excitedly show her what I had just discovered. Marion was always warmly receptive, and infinitely patient with me as I rambled on and on.
It was during that time that I first started to write my own simple stories. I think that I had absorbed so much general knowledge and had read so many facts in the two years spent in all those big books that my unconscious mind compelled me to find some way to express it all, and in my own words.
As I matured and immersed myself in my own story writing, I began to notice I could feel that pitch-dark scrim slowly rising in this next stage of my life. The way was opening for infinite possibilities to present themselves to me. I started to see exotic animals in the shapes of clouds that passed me overhead, and I recognized that magic was real.
Over the years, I have come to understand that writing for my aunt’s enjoyment also imbued in me a genuine sense of purpose in writing stories. It has allowed me to feel truly worthy of holding happiness, like a great book, in my own hands. And it is clear to me that achieving these aspirations were what Marion had always gently guided me towards, and intended, from the moment she first came to stay with my family and me.
I am now absolutely certain that my dear aunt not only redeemed my childhood, but also irrevocably shaped my entire outlook on life. Her powerful impact has had far too many positive influences on me to adequately express. That deep bond between us lasted until she passed away at the age of ninety-three. She had long since moved out on her own, way across the country from me, but I am certain that she was still holding a book in her hand when her wonderful spirit exchanged worlds.
Books have always entertained me, enlightened me, and unconditionally supported me during the most difficult and trying times. Throughout my life, some of the very best memories of my childhood are of having a book as my constant companion. And to this day, I know that books will carry you anywhere there is magic in the air, and where the cloud shapes of imagination are gliding by in your mind’s sky.
R.J. Jeffreys is an award-winning poet, writer, essayist, produced playwright, book manuscript consultant/editor and writing coach/mentor. He is host of "The Write Step with R.J. Jeffreys" podcast, senior producer Tiferet Talk and contributing editor at Tiferet Journal, Editor Emeritus and producer at VIDA: Voices & Views, associate editor/website developer at Cervena Bavra Press, and produces the Author2Author podcast.