The Book Shelf: Soulmates

Mary Badham

I met Scout in the orthodontist's office when I was fifteen. She introduced me to her brother Jem, her neighbor Dill, and her father. Atticus. Maycomb was my first southern visit, but even though it was "a tired old town" I was instantly comfortable there; the people were authentic. If you haven't met them yet, you really should.


There is no mistaking a real book. Although I had devoured books since I was 6, this was one of my first real ones. It crawled into my conscience, and burrowed into my soul; it opened my mind to gaps in humanity I knew nothing of before. It described childhood through adult eyes, and parenthood through children's eyes. I am better because I've read it—not once, but over and over again.

Seeing it on my shelf is like running into an old friend on the street. I can jump in and browse any page, even though I have no intention of reading it that day, and be reminded that, like an old friend, this book has influenced who I am.

Each of my kids studied To Kill a Mockingbird in junior high. There was a ragged, dog-earred copy floating around our house (with red underlines and notes jotted during classroom discussions) that had been feasted on by several 9th graders. I took it with me on a trip to Maine and uncovered symbolism and character elements that were new to me, even after years of reflecting on the book.

Jem had just ditched his pants under the Radley's gate, when the washer in the hotel laundromat beeped for me to add the soap. Holding the book in one hand, I managed to measure the detergent and lift the lid with the other while I kept on reading. Suddenly this prized paperback was swirling around in the bubbly water. I grabbed it, and tried to salvage it with the hairdryer, but it was crispy and wrinkled the next morning, beyond repair. I replaced it immediately with a pristine copy that begged for a red pencil.

Turning to the last two pages, I underlined Scout's childhood memories, described with such tenderness: "It was daytime and the neighborhood was busy" . . . "It was summertime, and two children scampered down the sidewalk" . . . "Fall, and his children trotted to and fro" . . . "Winter, and his children shivered . . . silhouetted against a blazing house" . . . "Winter, and a man . . . walked into the street, dropped his glasses, and shot a dog." I could savor the whole book again in just a few sentences.

My childhood is a tender place to visit, too. I run barefoot down the burning, softened asphalt to catch the ice-cream truck; sit on the screened-in porch late at night, with the perfume of lilacs hovering in the air; smell the furnace on that first chilly morning; taste Grampa's sour green apples, sprinkled with salt; sprawl on a blanket in the backyard, and listen to my dad sing You Are My Sunshine while Aunt Marie strums her ukelele. It all seems as imaginary as Boo Radley's soap dolls in the tree. But it's inside me, as are Heck Tate and Aunt Maudie. I experienced it all.

Books help me recall chapters in my life. Characters' lives are entwined with mine. Being inside an author's mind is an intimate thing. It's like knowing their soul.

Homework: Pick one or the other, or be inspired.

~Read something on your book shelf for sheer pleasure.

~Blog about a book you've read over and over. Prompt: "I can rifle the pages of ____and easily find my favorite part about____."

"As the book finishes, I go as slow as I can.
I don't want to leave this book's world."
—Jill Robinson