The Price of Nonconformity

I don’t know when I decided to become a nonconformist but the tendency showed up early in my life, at least in my choice of literature. I got an early start on reading and read most of the Oz books in early elementary school. (Long books to satisfy my literary appetite with large print to fit my immature eyes.) When my classmates discovered the joys of reading and were excited about the Boxcar Children, I was reading horse stories. When they moved on to the "Little House" books, I yawned and went back to my horse stories. Walter Farley. Marguerite Henry. Those were my favorite authors. I enjoyed the Bobbsey Twins somewhere along the way, but when the other girls started reading Nancy Drew books, I was already a Hardy Boys fan, having delved into my brothers’ collection, and couldn't get excited about a girl detective. I became a fan of the Lone Ranger in books without knowing anything about the radio or television versions of the stories. And I read all the childhood life fictionalized biographies I could find.

Of course, this meant I missed out on some excellent standards in children’s literature. I finally got around to reading the "Little House" books by Laura Ingalls Wilder during a college break one year. I didn’t get to know the "Boxcar Children" by Gertrude Chandler Warner until my son read the series when he was in elementary school. Around that same time, I pulled the Beverly Cleary "Ramona" books out of the elementary library where I was doing volunteer work and read that complete set. I’ve slowly filled in some of the gaps in my literary background from the children’s department of the library over the years as well as sampling new juvenile selections. I enjoy children’s literature. It’s fast. It’s clean. It is often very well written. I can pick up on the underlying message more readily than in adult fiction. (At least I can now; when I read Black Beauty for probably the tenth time but first time as an adult, I was shocked to discover that it was not the horse story I had always loved as much as social commentary.)

Somehow, in my reading as a child and still as an adult, I passed over the Chronicles of Narnia by C. S. Lewis, even after being greatly influenced by his books written for adults. I’ve read his space trilogy but not his children’s books! I’ve read the books by Lewis’ friend, J. R. R. Tolkien. I’ve read several fairy tales by George MacDonald, whom Lewis called his mentor, and found them wonderful. Why not The Chronicles of Narnia?

It’s not that I didn’t try. I bought a boxed set of the series and read The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe when my children were young. They eventually read the entire set. I thought maybe I made it through the set sometime along the way. I know I read The Magician’s Nephew. Apparently, I never made it further than that.

When the movie based on The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe was released a few weeks ago, my husband and I went to see it on opening night. I decided it was a good time to (re)read the series. However, by the time I got to The Horse and His Boy, I realized I was not reading again but for the first time.

How did I pass these up? This is the exact kind of children’s literature that most appeals to me. (Since my Oz days, I’ve enjoyed books of magic and I've read through long collections of fairy tales.) They are widely accepted as children’s classics. In fact, they are perhaps the most popular classics in children’s literature I’ve never read.

So, all you Harry Potter fans, what are your favorite selections from classic children’s literature? Have I missed anything else?