The Wide Wide World

S. Hileman Iannazzo

June 29, 2021

Not to brag, but I learned to read the year before kindergarten. I’m not a prodigy, I just had a very dear, elderly aunt who, with great patience, taught me the basics. She was a spinster, and for a time, she lived with my family. I’m not sure how old she was, but to five year old me she seemed at least a hundred. She even smelled old. My brothers would giggle when she, without a shred of embarrassment, would let go of a dusty fart, sitting on the couch next to me. Her name was Bertha, but everyone called her Byee. We didn’t have bedtime stories in my family, but thanks to my Byee we damn sure had books.

I had, by then developed a pretty healthy addiction to Little Golden Books, bought for 50 cents or so at the grocery store by my mother who didn’t have the heart to say no to her youngest. With four kids money was scarce, every dime accounted for. My mother would water down our milk to make it last longer and she'd cook big bowls of pasta to fill our bellies so, yeah, those Little Golden Books were a treasured luxury. I’d carefully write my name with crayon inside, under the spot where it said “This Little Golden Book Belongs To”. Somehow this ritual transferred ownership of the story inside to only me and my Byee. We’d read them together, and later I’d read them alone. Over and over again. The Shy Little Kitten, The Saggy Baggy Elephant, and my absolute favorite, The Pokey Little Puppy. Even as I approach my fiftieth birthday, I still chuckle at that chubby little puppy who came home late and ate up all of the rice pudding and who went for forbidden walks in the ‘wide wide world’. I discovered at that very young age, the magic found that could be found inside the pages of a book. I felt bad for people who don’t enjoy reading. I still sorta do. The little version of myself, that existed in 1978, was pretty satisfied with life.

And then my mother forced me to go to school. Was she out of her mind? I didn’t need school; I could read, and write my name, and color within the lines. I was terrified and a bit angry. Despite my best efforts, my mother forced me into an ugly and itchy dress, and yanked my hair into two absurd looking pony tails. She scrubbed my ears, my face and good lord even my neck. And with dread in every single step, she walked with me, holding my hand, to ‘school’. I cried. I begged. I cried again. Outside the playground gate, she promised up and down, and in all but blood, that she would come back for me. I hesitated at that gate that surrounded the monkey bars and the swings, and then I forced my tiny feet to cooperate. With superhuman courage, I conquered that playground! Being the youngest in the family, I knew I had to play this cool. I scrubbed at my eyes, wiping away the tears, and when a boy I didn’t know asked me why I was crying, I promptly informed him that he was mistaken. And then, I climbed to the very top of those monkey bars, and from there, I could see past the baseball diamond, to the big kid school where my brother was being held in the second grade, and I felt better.

A bell rang. And we five year olds lined up. Inside, my stomach was wrought with butterflies, but on the outside, I pretended I was as cool as a Pink Lady (I had seen Grease at the drive in theater five times that summer). I marched with my peers into my very first ‘official’ classroom.

The room was large, and we were arranged in a half circle on a multicolored carpet. I crossed my legs, Indian style and concentrated on not throwing up. Our teacher, Mrs. Boze sat in a chair, soft spoken, with kind eyes, and with very little effort she settled our group down. She told us to stand up, face the flag and taught us all the words to the Pledge of Allegiance. Apparently this was how we were going to start each day from now on. I’ll admit, I felt very important, although admittedly I was horrified when I realized I’d have to come here everyday? I assumed this was a one shot deal. I had held up my end of the bargain and attended ‘real school’. I was already dreading tomorrow. And the tomorrow after that. I wanted to be home with my Aunt Byee, watching Sesame Street and eating toast with sugar on it. I did think that the boy who accused me of crying was rather cute and I did want to be his friend, but everyday?? After we recited the pledge we took our seats on the rug. Mrs. Boze, waited until we were quiet ‘as mice’, and then, she opened the book that she’d been holding on her lap. She began to read, and I was transported, just like the Pokey Little Puppy, into the wide, wide world. I lost track of time. I forgot the butterflies in my belly. The rest of the morning rushed by, and before I knew it, the bell rang again. We put our things away, and once again we lined up. Mrs. Boze opened the double doors that led to the sidewalk, and wouldn’t you know it, there was my mom, as promised, waiting for me. I ran to her, she reached for my hand and we walked home, while I told her all about how great ‘real school’ had been. I couldn’t wait for tomorrow, especially now that I knew for sure my mother was going to fetch me at the end of those morning sessions.

A lifetime of libraries, book fairs, bookmobiles, magazines, followed kindergarten. Its been said that a reader lives a thousand lives, I couldn’t agree more. I’ve spent time with the Babysitters Club, with the girls at Sweet Valley High, with Jo and Meg and Beth and Amy. I’ve flown to Neverland with Peter, I learned how to stay gold from Johnny and Ponyboy Curtis. I’ve met thousands of good guys and villains. I’ve gone on countless journeys with Stephen King, meeting Pennywise, and Jack Torrence, and everyone in between.

When I was a young teenager, my aunt Byee passed away. I hadn’t seen her in quite some time but when I got the news I cried. I hope that the time we spent together meant as much to her as it did to me. I hope she knows, or knew, that because of her, I’ve quite enjoyed the wide wide world.

Fin.