I am getting older. So is everyone around me. I’ve started feeling fabrics at clothing stores and checking the garment care tags. My roommate has special glasses she wears in front of her computer screen to reduce eye strain. Things my boyfriend missed about being away from Ann Arbor all summer? His local butcher. I wouldn’t dare pretend any of us are “real adults” yet, but we’re getting there. I know this because not only do I catch myself doing things I’d long considered the minutiae of the adult world, but I also find it harder to remember things from when I was younger.
When I was little, I was both incredibly shy and thought I was smarter and more special than most of my classmates: the classic recipe for a bookworm. I was also convinced that I was destined for greatness (like, magical greatness) in the mode of Hermione Granger or Matilda. So: that which I call my childhood could really be considered a never-ending parade of books. I read constantly. My sisters were the same way. The three of us would sit around reading for hours, finish our books, and silently trade them and start the whole process over again. I have no idea how half the books in my house even ended up there, because I was lucky enough to have a bottomless supply.
Consequently, there are so many books I know I read when I was younger that I currently don’t remember at all. I get a bookish version of deja-vu: I’ll experience something that reminds me of something I read in a book, but I have no concept of the greater plot, and absolutely no idea of the title or author. So, in order to connect a little more with my littler self, I decided to make a list of the mysterious books from days gone by. And who knows? Maybe the good people of Book Riot can identify them, and help me wriggle free from the clutches of time.
I have so many of these bouncing around in my head, brought to the forefront of my thoughts by some random visual or auditory cue. Convinced this was just the lot of the childhood bookworm, I asked my sisters if they had any half-forgotten books. My sister Madeleine replied that she hardly ever remembered plots without titles unless she’d “mixed up a book with something she’d dreamed.”
No way. Like Alice or the Narnia kids, I know it can’t just be a dream. And when I find these books, maybe revisiting them will help me stall the whole growing-up thing. Or maybe I’ll just have something to read while I bookmark slow cooker recipes.