Siggy Fournier
Aug 22, 2017 · 2 min read

Frankly, memories of my childhood prove time and time again to be incredibly foggy and incoherent. I hardly remember anything about middle school, let alone elementary school or learning how to read.

My earliest memory of reading comes from third grade in an elementary school that’s been torn down and rebuilt. At Peace River Elementary, which was my second of three elementary schools, we had a small library that was perfectly square. There were shelves of books, of course, but there was nothing outstanding about what I saw whenever I walked in there. I followed my group of classmates, and we passed a little hut placed perfectly in the center of the library. It was a tall hut made of smoothed wood, and the floor was made of some sort of blue, plastic cushioning. There were more shelves with children’s books inside the hut, but nothing was really spectacular about it.

When my classmates and I were given the go-ahead to wander around the library, I made my way to the little hut in the center. There were no kids inside, so I crawled in and looked up. The roof of the hut was consisted of a single, transparent, rainbow-colored tarp that lit up the inside like a house of colors. I was dazzled by the sight, and immediately nestled in to read what I could before we were gathered up and told to go back to our classes. The reading hut became my preferred reading spot from then on.

The first book I remember reading, which, without a doubt, was definitely not the first book I’ve ever read, was Amelia Bedelia by Peggy Parish. I have no idea why I remember this book or why it had such an impact on my memory, but I remember it was hilarious. My older sister originally showed me the book, and I must have read it over a dozen times. I still remember that my favorite part was when she was asked to dress the chicken, and she gave the chicken a pair of overalls. I mean, how hilarious was that for an eight-year-old?

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