Story - The News-Herald

Vol. 138 No. 46

Wednesday, Nov. 16, 2005

Georgia's Favorites
Georgia: On My Mind

By Georgia Green Stamper

A pretty good friend of mine once announced to our book discussion group that she’d never liked a single novel I recommended. Such a put-down might silence others. Instead, I’ve put together an unabashed list I’m calling “Georgia’s Favorites.” This notion came to me after seeing something similar published by Time magazine. My reaction to Time’s choices, like Linda’s to mine, was along the lines of “what — are they crazy?”

Because this is my list, I get to make up the rules, and I decided to include only novels that have changed my life. So my picks aren’t the best books ever written (though some arguably are) nor the most entertaining (though, of course, some are charming.) But each, at a certain point in my life, made an impression on me that I’ve never forgotten.

I’ll begin with the Bobbsey Twin books because they were the first long stories I read on my own, and they introduced me to the joy of reading for pleasure. Someone gave me a dog-eared, used-up copy of the initial title, and I was so excited when I finished it that Daddy promised we’d hunt up the newly organized library over at the county seat, and see if they had some more.

But when we got to town, we weren’t able to locate the library although we walked up and down the main street, where we understood it to be, time after time. With me on the verge of tears, Daddy began to stop people on the sidewalk for directions. Finally, the third man we asked, knew where it was.

At last, we opened the right door, hidden beside the drugstore, and climbed a steep, narrow staircase lit by one naked light bulb dangling high in the sky. In my memory, everything in the damp, chilly space was painted brown — the bare wooden steps, the close plastered walls With each of my ascending footsteps echoing in the hollow stairwell, I began to second-guess my quest for the Bobbsey Twins.

If the stairs were a sort of Purgatory, what we found at the top of the long steps was a little bit of Heaven. A tiny suite of two rooms, kindly presided over by a plump, gray angel named Mrs. Beverly, was stuffed with colorful books on white shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling. The rooms over the drugstore were brightly lit with fluorescent lighting, and a blast of warm air hit us when we opened the door. Then, as in all seasons, the rooms smelled faintly of gas from the clucking space heater, and to this day I associate that odor with libraries. For me, it’s an oddly pleasant scent.

The library and I grew together. It moved locations, again and again, becoming ever larger and more sophisticated. I, too, moved on to bigger things. All of the Nancy Drew mysteries. Laura Ingalls Wilder. “The Long Winter,” especially, impressed me. I tried to imagine Daddy tunneling through snow as high as the house to reach the barn like Pa Ingalls had to do on the prairie. Later, Alcott’s “Little Women” introduced this only child to the sisters I yearned to have.

At sixteen, I read “Gone With the Wind” and Thomas Wolfe’s “Look Homeward Angel.” Wolfe’s lyrical prose intoxicated me, and GWTW showed me what great storytelling could be. Both made me think about the importance of family and place in literature — and in life.

I also read Arnow’s “The Dollmaker” about this time. For the longest while, since no one ever mentioned it in my classes, I thought I was the only one who knew about it, that it was my personal, secret masterpiece. All Kentucky high school students should be required to read it.

In college, I had to re-read “Huckleberry Finn” — a book I’d read as a youngster — and I decided that it was the great American novel. I was coming of age in the turbulent 1960s, and here was Mark Twain, reaching across a century, pointing out most everything I needed to consider.

I also discovered Joyce’s “Portrait of the Artist As a Young Man” and “Ulysses” in college. I didn’t enjoy those books, but I began to glimpse the limitless possibilities of written language. There was Faulkner, too. I like “As I Lay Dying” the best. No reason. And James Agee’s “A Death in the Family.” I wish I’d written that one.

Cather’s “My Antonia” and Rolvaag’s “Giants in the Earth” should be required reading for all Americans. This was how the west was really won. I would add “The Northwest Passage” and Steinbeck’s depression epic, “The Grapes of Wrath” to my American must-read list. Kentuckians should read Eckart’s “The Frontiersman.”

As an adult, reading for fun, I enjoyed Michener’s bestsellers. I especially admired “Chesapeake,” a story about my own heritage, and “The Source,” a thoughtful examination of the Bible’s history. Galsworthy’s “The Forsyte Saga” helped me understand the English better, and was a good read to boot.

I can’t leave out “Watership Down.” Even though its supposedly about rabbits, it covers about all there is to know about civilization. And I like anything by Lee Smith. She makes me laugh and think, and she writes about my neck of the woods. Ishiguro’s “Remains of the Day” should be read by the young, rather than the old, for whom it may come too late.

I’m glad I’ve read “Run With the Horsemen” and “Cold Sassy Tree,” wonderful stories about growing up in the south. They made me think I could write about my own childhood in rural Kentucky.

Did I mention “Charlotte’s Web”? Well, obviously this list isn’t complete. I can’t discuss in this short space all the books it’s taken a lifetime to discover. I haven’t even read all the books on my intend-to list. But as Charlotte said, a lifetime is all anyone has. I’d better get busy.

Click Here to Go Back to Community